


Possibilities

by Violet_Jones



Series: Scenarios [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anniversary, Army, Babysitting, Bipolar Disorder, Diary/Journal, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, First Meetings, Friends With Benefits, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Making Up, Meet-Cute, Phone Sex, Post-Break Up, Prison, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: A collection of different short AUs. Each "chapter" is really a one-shot.Story 1: Long Overdue - Ian prevents Mickey from retaliating for old sins against them.Story 2: Interloper - Mickey gets overheard admitting to a crime while running from the cops with Iggy.Story 3: Buffer - Mickey keeps Ian at arm's length, but it's getting tougher.Story 4: Now to War - Ian is being deployed and has something important to say to his "ex" first.Story 5: Cell Date - Mickey's locked up, so when he gets a cell phone, he puts it to sexy use with Ian.Story 6: Ian's Box of Crap - Mickey discovers a notebook among Ian’s old possessions.Story 7: Down the Line - Ian and Mickey take care of Franny and Freddie for the day.Story 8: Overboard - Mickey gets Ian something unexpected for their anniversary.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Scenarios [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059911
Comments: 105
Kudos: 243





	1. Long Overdue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to everyone who sent me prompts on [Tumblr](https://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Please don't ask for me to continue any of these stories, because I'm telling you right now that I won't. They're all one and dones. Thanks for understanding. :))
> 
> First up: Ian prevents Mickey from retaliating for old sins against them. Based on the dialogue inclusion prompt: “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” + “Watch me."

“Yo,” said Lip, bursting through the door of the Gallagher house.

Ian was lounging on the couch next to Mickey; Franny and Freddie happily playing at their feet.

“What up?” he asked his brother.

“You’re not gonna believe this shit…” Lip’s gaze flicked back and forth between the couple.

“Okayyyy?” replied Ian.

“I just dropped by the Kash and Grab for a pop, and guess who the fuck is back in Chi-town?”

Ian grimaced and glanced at Mickey, whose eyebrows suddenly shot up very high.

“Fuckin’ Towelhead?” Ian’s tactless husband inquired, his voice going high at the end.

“Nice bigoted slur, Mick,” Lip deadpanned, eyes snapping back to Ian, “but yeah.”

Ian could honestly say he hadn’t thought about Kash in years. He hadn’t even seen Linda around, since he avoided his old job premises like the plague, on account of the many weird, ancient memories attached to them. It wasn’t really an imposition, seeing as there were countless other convenience stores in the neighborhood. That entire chapter of his life was so closed, he didn’t care to think on it. Save the Mickey part, obviously, but even then he preferred to edit certain things out. Fuck knows they were always drowning in drama in the beginning; were maybe still known to swim in _some_ , but the waters seemed a lot more navigable now that they were adults with rings on their fingers.

Ian just shrugged, unwilling to make himself care again, but Mickey shot to his feet.

“You know how long I’ve wanted to get even with that piece of shit?” he exclaimed, cracking his knuckles and stretching his neck muscles.

Ian exhaled loudly and stood up too. “Mick,” he said in a tone of warning. “Everything that happened with Kash was a long fucking time ago, okay? It doesn’t matter anymore. Let it go.”

“Fuck _you_ I’m gonna let it go.”

Ian sighed and glanced around, Lip looking much more amused than he should be for getting Mickey riled up like this, before meeting his husband’s gaze again. “Can we talk about this in private, please?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, turning heel. “You can follow me to where I keep my Glock.”

It was times like these that made Ian want to knock him upside the head with a large fist, merely to save his ass from pulling stupid shit that could get him thrown back in prison. He followed him up the stairs and shut the door behind them as Mickey rifled around their sock drawer for the locked case they now kept their weapons in.

“Mickey,” Ian pleaded again in a stern voice, “I’m serious about this. You can’t go bringing this bullshit back to life. What’s the point?”

Mickey chuckled derisively as he unlocked the box. “The _point_ is that’s the fucker who put a damn bullet in me and sent me to juvie. Not to mention, he fuckin’ statch-raped you when you were a goddamn moony-eyed, baby-faced kid. Dickhead’s gotta pay.”

He pulled the 9mm out and checked the chamber. Ian placed his hand over it to stop him.

“You don’t gotta explain to me why he’s a dirtbag creep, okay? I’m just sayin’ that it’s irrelevant now. What’s done is done. Takin’ a gun down to the store like it’s 2011 is a terrible idea. How many times do I have to beg your stupid ass not to get arrested again, huh?”

Mickey cocked the slide with a slick click and shoved the gun in the back of his pants. “I don’t give a shit how long it’s been. How come that bastard never got thrown in the damn clink? Back in the day, we used to bury pedos in the backyard. Street justice ain’t got a statute of limitations.”

It was Ian’s turn to roll his eyes. “Bullshit this is about street justice. You just have a vendetta, cuz he popped you one and got you busted. Don’t try to make it about defending my honor.”

“It can be two things, Gallagher. This dude deserves to get robbed, shot, and strung up by the balls. I’d do more, but ya know, not worth takin’ the time.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

“Maybe at one point I did, so what?”

“So? So you can’t just resurrect this crap, Mick! You’re gonna give him the opportunity to fuck up our lives again? It’s not worth it. You can’t do this.”

“Watch me.”

Mickey tried to slip past him then, but Ian stepped back and leaned heavily on the door, barring his dumbass husband from getting to it.

“I’m not watching shit, Mickey. Put the damn gun back and cool the hell off.”

“Get outta my way, Gallagher. I’m fuckin’ serious.”

“What are you gonna do, shoot me instead?”

Mickey’s face became very serious, but Ian wasn’t shaken. “Ian. Back… the fuck… _off_.”

“No.” He shook his head adamantly. “Don’t make me fucking tackle you to the floor. You didn’t even switch the safety back on, you degenerate.”

“I’m gonna count to three. You better move.” Mickey was pointing in his face very authoritative like.

Ian couldn’t hold in his snort, and that just made him crack up, as Mickey’s shoulders slumped and he looked both indignant and resigned.

“I’m so tired of fighting with you, Mick. Can you please just stop? If it really means that much to you to get some petty revenge on Kash, then let’s come up with something better than rehashing an old storyline, okay?”

Mickey glared at him for a minute, then rubbed his lips together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that maybe if we do it the right way, we could get him some jail time just like you think he deserves.”

“Like I think—” Mickey started. “Bitch, you should think he deserves it more than anyone. You were what? Thirteen? Fourteen? The fuck, man?”

Ian stepped forward again and put his arms around Mickey, trailing his left hand down toward the waistband of his husband’s pants.

“Are you done?” He eased the gun out and deftly flipped the safety on, walking them both backwards until he could set it on the dresser.

Mickey’s breath was hot on his neck, and he was somewhat red in the face. “Can’t believe you’re still protecting that motherfucker.”

“For the last time, you’re the only one I’m protecting here. You and me. Get that through your thick fucking Milkovich skull, okay? And if you do, maybe I’ll reward you in some way.”

Mickey’s body was still rigid against him as he scoffed, “You can’t bribe me with sexual favors anymore, dipshit. We’re fuckin’ married. Bangin’ is part of the damn contract, ain’t it?”

“Not if I don’t want it to be.”

Mickey laughed truly and deeply. “Yeah, okay, Captain Horndog. I could stay away from you longer than you could stay away from me. Guarantee that shit.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Jesus Christ, I thought this was a negotiation for me gettin’ a reward. I’d rather just redeem it for cash value. Which wouldn’t be much.”

“Hey!” Ian cried in affront.

Mickey just cackled again, backing up toward their bed. “Get over here with your dumb dick, then, Firecrotch. My ass ain’t gonna fuck itself.”

“I don’t know why I married you.”

“Yeah you do.”

Yeah, he did.

  


  



	2. Interloper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Mickey is overheard admitting to a crime while running from the cops with Iggy. Based on the dialogue inclusion prompt: “How much of that did you hear?” + “Why are you helping me?”

“Jesus, Iggy, I’m gonna fuckin’ murder you myself one of these days,” Mickey threatened in exasperation.

They were both leaning over, hands on knees, gasping for air, just having run full-speed for at least twelve blocks. The pillars beneath the L tracks were now providing the mild seclusion they needed to wait out a cursory police search of the area.

“Ain’t my fault!” Iggy exclaimed defensively.

Mickey’s face scrunched up to a degree that only his dumbest family members could make it reach. “Yes it fuckin’ was! Who else’s fault would it be?”

He’d always kind of wondered how he was the only one in his crap-ass family to be gifted with at least half a brain. Well, him and his younger sister, Mandy. She was alright. Skanky and crazy, but not a total idiot. He couldn’t say the same for his brothers, male cousins, father, uncle, etcetera. Mickey couldn’t even get his begrudgingly favorite brother to follow a simple goddamn plan that would’ve kept them out of trouble when they were out committing crimes. He was just gonna have to start doing everything himself. Safety in numbers didn’t apply when the other member of your team seemed to have been lobotomized when no one was paying attention. It was probably all the meth. Mickey was smart enough to stay away from that particular bullshit. Didn’t want to become a scabby, denture-wearing, toothpick skinny, low-life with no mind left to lose. He was content to stick to coke and weed like a normal person.

“That old bitch came outta nowhere! Self-defense!”

“It ain’t self-defense if you’re robbin’ the joint, numbnuts! We’re lucky you fuckin’ missed!”

If he had it his way, Mickey wouldn’t be doing these petty robberies anymore. He much preferred bigger jobs, like gun and drug running. But times were tough, and he had to do what he had to do. He’d even considered getting a legit job for once in his life, but the skills he possessed weren’t exactly easily adaptable to the straight and narrow path. Being a criminal was how he was raised, and all he knew. It brought heat, but it was still a comfortable fit. Living without the constant presence of major risk would probably feel so foreign as to drive him crazier than a meth addiction in the long run.

The job Mickey’d lined up involved hitting up a few different borderline upmarket stores that’d opened up in their neck of the woods since the gentrifiers had set upon The Yards, then selling the goods to a guy he knew in the online black market trade. Not as lucrative as heavy metal and funny powder, but a decent payday nonetheless. Except fuckface over here who had to ruin everything by getting trigger-happy on Main while they were attempting to heist merchandise from location number two of three. If the pigs nabbed either one of them, they’d be going down for at least five to ten. _Years_. Mickey was done donating _years_ to the prison industrial complex. The most he could afford was _months_ at best.

“When’d you turn into such a giant asshole?” asked Iggy. “Oh, nevermind, probly when you started gettin’ it railed on the reg.”

A giant smile stretched across his perpetually dirty face, causing Mickey’s eyebrows to lift dangerously high on his forehead. Occasionally, his dumber-than-rocks older brother managed to think up some admittedly clever asides. Mickey didn’t know whether to punch him or give him daps.

Before he could decide, however, he heard a distinct little snicker from the other side of the large concrete column they were leaning on, raising his hackles to invisibly join his eyebrows in their heightened incredulity.

Mickey hastily rounded the pillar and grabbed the giggler by the shirt collar, hauling him to their side and pinning him next to Iggy with his forearm. He looked into the guy’s eyes, and finally registered who it was. He kinda sorta knew him from around town. Used to hang out with his sister back in high school. He was a lot scrawnier then. This version of the dude could probably hold his own with Mickey in a fight. He’d built some definite muscle.

“How much of that did you hear, asshole?” Mickey demanded, seeing Iggy flash the gun in his waistband in his periphery.

This idiot didn’t look as rattled as he should be, though. He just shrugged his shoulders.

“Considering I was here first, I guess… all of it?”

He was wearing an annoying little smirk, his green-blue eyes shining bright, and his red hair distracting Mickey as much as the light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He had a stupidly ultra-defined chin, and Mickey immediately hated it. His chin hadn’t looked like that when he was a 15-year-old pipsqueak.

“Wipe that smile off your face, bitch,” ordered Mickey, pressing his arm harder against the guy’s pale throat. “You think this is fuckin’ funny? You know who we are?”

The guy shrugged again, like this was all a casual conversation on the corner. “Mickey.” He glanced at his dumb, blonde, curlicue brother. “And Iggy, right? I used to hang out with Mandy all the time. Have a good memory.”

“Yeah? Well I remember your goofy ass too, Gallagher. I know where you live and I know who your family is, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your big mouth shut or I’ll pick ‘em off one by one and save you for last. Got it?”

The dude snorted, and Mickey wondered if he was some kind of crazy tweaker with no sense of propriety or self-preservation.

“You outta your goddamn mind or somethin’?” Mickey added. “I ain’t jokin’.”

“Look, Gallaghers don’t snitch, alright?” He held his hands up placatingly. “I promise not to say shit to anyone. It’s none of my business, and I really don’t care. That good enough for you?”

Mickey loosened his hold, but sized him up all the while. “Maybe. But it’s possible you need a little lesson to remember it good. Wouldn't want you to forget about the consequences of you breakin’ your word.”

The dude winced and shoved Mickey off. “I don’t need a fucking beatdown, Mickey. I get it.”

“Ohhhh,” Mickey singsonged derisively, meeting Iggy’s gaze. “He gets it.” He thumbed his eyebrow. “Guess I’m just s’posed to believe you, huh?”

“That would be ideal, yeah.”

Mickey had to give it to him; he almost cracked a smile. The kid had balls. Most people around their neighborhood cowered before a Milkovich like spring lambs. Still, he lived by a code, and letting some rando walk away unscathed when he had dirt on him just didn’t fit the rules.

He cocked his fist back to knock it into tall, pale, and red’s pearly white teeth, just as the stunted siren of a cop car rang out very close by. Their collective heads all snapped toward the sound, and after sharing a meaningful between brothers, Iggy took off running once again, without a word.

Normally, Mickey would’ve followed hot on his heels, but some unknown force was keeping his useless feet stuck to the dirty ground, eyes watching as Gingerballs glanced around the column at the flashing lights, taking a very long look that wasn’t suspicious at all.

Before he could react outwardly, Mickey was pulled against a hard body, Gallagher’s warm breath sending a shiver down his spine as he whispered, “Be cool. I got you.”

Suddenly, big hands were caressing Mickey’s back, and despite a part of him not minding in the least, the rest of him stiffened considerably.

“What the fuck are you _doing_?” he rasped out, hearing the telltale slam of a car door, and attempting to pull away. But a strong grip held him close, spinning him around so that he was the one up against the concrete now.

“Saving your thug ass. I know this guy, okay? Just chill and follow my lead.”

Okay, what the hell was this surreal turn of events? Gallagher was bold as shit, _cradling_ Mickey all gay like. Sure, Iggy had made a fag joke earlier, kicking off this whole… whatever it was, but still. This guy had no way of knowing it was based in reality. Did he?

And had Gallagher really been gay this whole time? How had Mickey never sniffed this scorching information out?

“What’s going on here, boys?”

The copper rounded the corner, genuinely swinging his nightstick like a cartoon character, and Mickey had to suppress a deep roll of his eyes.

“ _Milkovich?_ ” Mr. CPD continued, extreme disbelief coloring his voice.

Mickey was abruptly reminded that he was currently stuck between a rock and a hard body, and nothing about their entanglement screamed anything other than gay, gay, super-fucking-gay. Not that Mickey hadn’t come to accept who he was and what he liked, but he didn’t go around spreading the truth all over town either. This could seriously damage his carefully crafted reputation.

“Tony!” Ian interjected, sparing him from having to invent some lame excuse, and the cop’s eyes snapped to him instead.

“ _Ian?_ ” His tone was still dripping with astonishment.

“Yeah! What's up? How you been?”

Mickey shot him an ‘are you goddamn serious right now?’ look, and _Ian_ just squeezed his hip in tacit reply.

“Uhhh… gooood? Care to explain whatever…” he waved his stick between them, “ _this_ is?”

Ian laughed and he figured the dude truly was a nutcase. Mickey was going to jail for sure.

“Um, well,” answered Ian, suddenly playing it very meek and demure, “Mickey and I were just… you know…”

“You and… _Mickey_?”

“Not fucking or anything! Just... hanging out?”

“Hanging out.”

“Yeah, you know how it is. I’m tryin’ to convince Mick here to come home with me, but he’s being squirrelly.” He shook his head and shrugged. “South Side guys.”

“What the fuck?” Mickey whispered harshly, completely taken aback.

Ian just squeezed him tightly again, which was not helping his whole brain scramble situation.

“Huh,” said Tony, a tone of acceptance seeping in. “Mickey Milkovich, eh? _Wow_.”

“Come on, Tony. I don’t have to tell you this is all a big secret, do I?” replied Ian.

“And blondie who ran away like there was a damn fire? Did he flee a threesome?”

Mickey frowned and fake-wretched, finally speaking up. “Fuck no, man. That was my dumbass brother. He don’t like cops.”

“Uh huh. And you and your brother didn’t happen to be getting into trouble about 15 minutes ago, did you?”

“No _sir_ ,” Mickey said with a mock salute.

Ian kicked at his foot in warning.

“He’s been with me since like 3 o’clock, Tone. Scout’s honor.”

Officer Tony eyed them both with a look of skepticism, but didn’t contradict Ian’s word. The CB sounded from the open window of the black and white, with some cop-speak crackling over the airwaves.

“Stay put,” said Tony, eyes lingering longer on Mickey’s than Ian’s. “Both of you.”

He retreated to answer the radio call, and Mickey let out a deep whoosh of air.

“Goddamn, Gallagher. You’re spinnin’ quite a yarn here.”

“Yep,” Ian agreed. “A big gay yarn.”

“How the fuck did you know—”

“That you’re gay? Well, I heard Iggy make that joke, obviously. Pretty specific bottom joke to make if you weren’t actually into it. Plus, I always had my suspicions.”

Mickey scoffed. “Yeah fuckin’ right!”

“I did!”

“Whatever. Why are you helping me?”

“Out of the kindness of my heart?”

“Try again.”

“I don’t know. Why not? Makes us even or something. Now you know I won’t rat you out. About any of it. I wouldn’t out someone like that, and I don’t give a shit about the illegal crap you’re wrapped up in. Tony Markovich is like turbo gay too. Used to bang my sister, I think, but he came out a couple years ago. He won’t let it slip about you. He’s not a total bastard just cuz he’s a cop, ya know?”

Mickey bit his lip in contemplation. Gallagher seemed pretty genuine. Still didn’t much make sense in his brain, but whatever.

“Fine. But you know what’s gonna happen if—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, kick my ass, kill my family, got it.”

“You’re a cocky little shit, ain’t you?”

Ian smirked again, and it was pretty sexy, actually. “Maybe.”

He had the gall to push against Mickey more fully, pressing the bottom half of their bodies closer together.

Mickey gasped. “Gonna have to ask you again… what the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

“You wanna go out sometime?”

Mickey cackled in his face. “You’re off your fuckin’ rocker for sure.”

“Am not! I can tell you want me.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Cocky little shit doesn’t even begin to cover it, does it?”

“Come onnnn,” Ian prodded.

“Do I look like I date, Gallagher?”

“A date can be whatever we want it to be, Milkovich. I’m easy.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

“Okay,” Tony interrupted, coming back into view. “Get the hell outta here. You wanna bang, do it indoors somewhere, or I’ll have to arrest you for public indecency or worse. And Milkovich… if I find any evidence of what I’m sure you know I’m talking about, I’ll be paying your ass a visit real soon.”

Mickey let the eyeroll loose then, withholding a flip of his middle finger, and deadpanning instead, “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, officer.”

Tony sighed loudly. “Whatever.”

“Thanks, Tony!” Ian cried at his retreating back.

“You always kiss cop ass like that? Cuz that’s not the way to get into my pants, Red.”

Ian just grinned, finally pulling his body away as he looked around. “You gonna follow me home or what?”

Mickey wanted to tell him to go fuck himself and swagger away like a badass. But was he not a thirsty man being propositioned by a hot guy who just randomly saved his ass from a trip to the slammer?

He at least feigned protest, huffing and puffing as he kicked at the dirt. “Goddamn it, Gallagher, you drive a hard bargain.”

Ian’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, as Mickey added, “Lead the way, weirdo.”

  


  



	3. Buffer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Mickey keeps Ian at arm's length, but it's getting tougher. Based on the dialogue inclusion prompt: “You make me want things I can’t have.”

Ian Gallagher was starting to become a problem.

And the worst part about it was that he wasn’t even a problem that Mickey wanted to resolve. No. He just kept holding Ian closer and refusing to push him away like he should. He was just _letting_ him ruin Mickey’s mediocre life. Because something about Ian was unshakeable. It wasn’t just that Ian kept coming back no matter what Mickey ever said or did, either. Ian was definitely persistent, but Mickey had formed an attachment too, even though he did everything in his power to hide it. It was still there, buried under layers of caustic remarks, aloof expressions, and occasional lashing out. He wasn’t proud of his behavior, but it was just who he was, and remaining unchanged in his ways was easier than the alternative.

Ian was definitely too good for him. Sure, he was hood trash too, but they were on two different levels. Ian was buffed up with a certain surface shine that Mickey lacked. Although, he would admit he’d come a long way in his style and hygiene game since his early days as an unwashed miscreant. Mickey was a gay man after all, and not immune to gaying certain things up, despite his tendency to flout homo conventions. If he wanted the ability to get a decent dick in his ass, there were standards that he’d learned to push himself to meet. This was the glossiest Mickey was ever gonna get, and it still came with a pinch of grime and hostility.

Maybe he’d developed enough sense to give a fuck, but he still didn’t give two shits either; a concept that walking contradictions the world over could likely comprehend.

The thing about Gallagher was that he was _sweet_. Not in an annoying, cloying, obvious way that was anathema to everything Mickey was about, but in a low-key, casual, incidental kind of way that somehow managed to be attractive, even to someone with Mickey’s abrasive nature. Ian played tough, and he genuinely was in many ways, but he had a gooey, marshmallow center that evened him out. Mickey didn’t see himself as having that sort of balance.

But there were these unsettling moments like this, usually in the middle of the night or early in the morning, when Mickey would catch himself watching Ian unawares. Unawares because he only ever did it when the redhead was deep in sleep. Suddenly, Mickey would be Mr. Contemplation, burning a hole into the face of the dude he was banging, daring to wonder what could happen between them if he wasn’t an emotionally stunted asshole. And then he’d reflect on what Ian’s life was like whenever he wasn’t around; the things Mickey acted like he didn’t care to know.

These circular thought patterns never led anywhere good, because at the end of the day, Ian wasn’t his. And Mickey could never be Ian’s. He’d long ago resigned himself to a certain destiny that involved long-term solitude until his dying day, which he’d always been fairly certain would come prematurely and most likely in violent fashion. It would be ridiculous to drag someone else into his vortex of apathy for life and the general traditions of living it. Especially someone like Ian, who was good; who helped people because he genuinely cared about, like, the well-being of humanity and shit. Despite the occasional soft look or revelatory comment that Ian would throw his way, he knew better than to think he’d want to be saddled with Mickey’s non-reciprocating ogre-y ass.

Usually when one of these intense, one-sided staring sessions would take place, Mickey would overcompensate for silently slipping by adding an extra dose of rudeness when he kicked Ian out after the fact. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure why Gallagher still bothered with him. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get laid elsewhere. Ian was the type that would never have trouble finding a willing ass. Yet somehow he kept coming back to Mickey and ignoring all the negatives thrown in his path. It didn’t make much sense on either of their parts… _allowing_ each other in on any terms. Probably meant that Ian was just as fucked up as he was, really.

Blowing out the last hit off his smoke, Mickey glanced at the bedside clock and stubbed out the cigarette butt. 3:26 AM and he was wide awake, just gawking at his slumbering ginger fuck buddy, and trying to repress the multitude of emotions swirling within him. It was truly pathetic.

He could just get the hell up and drag his ass to the living room to play video games or watch late-night TV, but no. Apparently he liked suffering and feeling conflicted. What a pussy.

Not ten minutes went by before there was slow movement from the other side of the bed... Ian turning over in his sleep, reaching an arm out, and searching. Searching for the warmth of Mickey’s body, it would seem.

A big hand landed on his thigh, rubbing it softly as tired eyes blinked open, and a groggy voice sounded, “What’re’y’doin’?”

_Oh, just fuckin’ lying here starin’ at your pasty ass for some reason._ “Can’t sleep.”

“Didn’t wear you out?” Ian asked with a breathy titter, squeezing the sensitive flesh precariously close to Mickey’s groin.

Maybe it made his dick twitch a little.

“When did one round ever wear me out?”

“Pretty sure there were _two_ rounds. Did you forget about the couch?”

“Random handies while watchin’ mediocre porn barely counts as a round, carrot-top.”

“A, it wasn’t that mediocre, and B, do you only consider it sex if penetration is involved?”

“I mean… it helps.”

“What about blowjobs, then? How would you classify them?”

“Sex _act_ , but not sex, _sex_. Know what I mean?”

Ian laughed. “Not really. What about lesbians?”

“Definitely don’t wanna have my cock anywhere near those.”

“Har har. I mean, what would you call lesbian sex?”

“Gross? Boring? I don’t fuckin’ know. Never had it, don’t plan to.”

Ian laughed harder and it made Mickey feel good. “Pretty sure lesbians don’t want fuck all to do with you either, bottom boy.”

“Hey, likin’ what I like don’t make me a bitch.”

“No, but you seem pretty hostile toward anything but a real live human cock poking you in the asshole. I mean, naysaying getting your dick sucked? That’s a bold bossy bottom stance to take.”

“What can I say? I’m a simple man with simple kinks. Aren’t you glad I don’t need any freaky extra shit to get me off?”

“What kinda freaky extras are we talkin’?”

“Fuck off, Gallagher. Don’t act like you don’t just live for stickin’ that big red dick inside any tight manhole that’ll accommodate it. Does that make you a hungry top just begging for it?”

“I prefer ‘brutal top,’ since it’s so big, as you were so kind to mention.”

Mickey rolled his eyes into tomorrow. “Gotta remember to stop accidentally complimenting it. You get so fuckin’ uppity about it.”

Ian rolled over and boxed him in, nuzzling around his face and neck, while Mickey tried to bat him away.

“Come on,” prodded Ian. “Big hard cock seeks tight little hole for another round of deep penetration.”

Mickey could feel said big hard cock firming right up against his hip. “Ixnay on the cutesy man seeking man dirty talk, fuckhead. I _will_ make you take that hulking boner elsewhere.”

“No you won’t,” Ian replied, humping down against him.

Of course he wouldn’t, but he had to front at least a little bit. That was the nature of his inner beast.

While they were fucking, Mickey could just let himself get lost in all the appropriate heightened sensations that really good sex immersed him in. Immersed him _and_ Ian in. Ian and him. _Them_. Reveling in the pleasure of carnality was totally kosher… as long as it limited him from basking in that additional Ian stuff. That _feelings_ stuff that he had no idea what to do with. That unfathomable connection that existed between them.

He let Ian kiss him a lot too. Like, _a lot_ , a lot. That wasn’t customary for him with other dudes. In fact, it barely ever happened. It was just another habit Ian had slipped under the wire to form with him when he wasn’t paying enough attention. Mickey was pretty sure he’d kissed more girls in his life than boys, because that was always an easy, less disgusting way to publicly appear straight during the years he’d spent in the closet. With guys, there was nothing to prove and everything to hide, so it just wasn’t something he incorporated into his casual sex routine.

Before Ian, he hadn’t exactly attracted the kind of dudes that warranted sticking around for in any capacity, or who made any kind of effort to stick with him. There were never any near-miss boyfriends, or pine-worthy hookups. Sex was always transactional and he’d been perfectly fine with that arrangement.

The truth was that once he’d fucked up and invited Ian in for repeats over and over again, he started to figure out that the sex just kept getting better and better. That when two bodies really took the time to get to know each other, things fit better, motions got smoother, and orgasms got a thousand times stronger. Turned out that one-night-stands were not where the fuck it was at. Those were always crapshoots with odds that were at best 25/75 in favor of mediocrity. With Ian, it was guaranteed total fulfillment 100% of the time.

That was the only explanation he could find for this unexpected addiction he was stuck with. An addiction to Ian and his stupidly perfect cock. The rest of his body was alright too. And when he spoke, he wasn’t completely fucking annoying. His personality and his nature were tolerable. Mickey didn’t want to gouge his eyes out every time he got sucked into a conversation.

They didn’t really hang out, though. Outside of the bedroom, that is. It was like the whole game changed when they were in bed. They could fuck, they could goof around and have a laugh, they could wrestle, they could accidentally say something profound once in a while… but if Ian had a bag of food when he dropped by, Mickey wasn’t about to sit on the couch and watch TV with him while he ate it, and he definitely wasn’t going to accept a portion for himself.

Until tonight, that is. Or last night, or however the fuck time was identified when you were a natural night owl.

Tonight, they’d crossed another invisible line in the sand, and Mickey had found himself chowing down on tacos, while heckling some shitty 90s action film; his part-time lover chuckling next to him with a sloppy mouth.

It was fucking terrifying.

So as soon as he’d realized what was actually happening, and how much he didn’t hate it, Mickey had switched over to some hardcore porn. They’d cracked jokes about it at first, but it’d done the trick of quickly leading to the familiar comfort of sexual gratification. With that justification, Mickey could just sweep the whole ‘watching a movie and eating together like they were on a date’ thing under the proverbial rug without further examination.

At least until Ian had fallen asleep around 2 AM. Then it was dwell city.

By 4:30 AM, Ian had fucked him into the mattress once again, and promptly fallen back asleep without a care in the world. Mickey was more than sated, but felt even more awake than he had an hour ago, his brain full of fresh bullshit about the man next to him and what was happening between them.

He opened his bedside drawer and pulled out his stash, knowing the high would fog up his brain enough to go off on thought tangents, and eventually shut down for at least five hours. Within ten minutes, he felt a little better, or at least more distracted. He was still very aware of Ian’s looming presence in the darkness, though. He wanted to be comforted by it, but he just couldn’t relax.

There’d always been a buffer between them, which Mickey had been diligent in maintaining, and he could see it slowly falling away now. If he didn’t step up and push back, pretty soon there’d be no barrier left standing. Who the fuck knew what could happen then.

He hated it. He felt so fucking out of control, when it _should_ be the easiest thing in the world to control. All he had to do was break it off. He knew exactly what to say and do to make that happen. Knew enough to be able to really hit Ian where it hurt, both literally and figuratively.

But goddamn it, he didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to make Ian sad, and he didn’t want to give into his own desire to try for more. He would always fuck it up, because he was a fuck-up by nature. His goddamn knuckles spelled it all out in block letters.

He wanted Ian, but he didn’t want the responsibility. Didn’t trust himself, because no one had ever trusted him before in his entire life. What kind of dumbass wanted that kind of damaged douchebag for a boyfriend? No sane one.

Against his better judgment, Mickey rolled closer to Ian and wrapped an arm around his middle, spooning him the way he secretly liked it when Ian spooned him. He held him close and breathed in his scent.

“You make me want things I can’t have,” he murmured to himself, exhaling heavily against Ian’s neck.

He fell asleep swiftly, and in the morning, he didn’t ask Ian to leave.

  


  



	4. Now to War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Ian is being deployed and he has something important to say to his ex first. Based on the dialogue inclusion prompt: “I might never get another chance to say this.”

Ian understood why Mickey was still in the closet. That was never really the issue. He was aware of the deeply scary, tyrannical nature of Mickey’s father, and how his horrible ways had left a lasting impression that was hard for him to shake. However, Ian had eventually started to feel a burden that he was frankly sick of bearing.

He’d never asked or expected Mickey to openly date him in front of his own family, but he would've appreciated some kind of quiet commitment where maybe they could at least let Ian’s family in on the secret (Lip already knew, but Mickey didn’t know he knew). Ian’s family had always been supportive when it came to Ian’s orientation. He knew they’d be supportive of Mickey too, even if they didn’t fully understand him, or even like him. They just wanted Ian to be happy.

But Mickey couldn’t even give him that much. He still fucked women to please his dad; still worked as his right-hand man doing illegal shit, instead of forging his own path; still stayed under that disgusting, oppressive thumb with no plans to ever get out from under it. Mickey still just didn’t believe that he could do or be anything different; had resigned himself to this depressing fate of constantly repressing himself for the rest of his life.

Ian just couldn’t stomach it anymore. Part of that was selfish, because yeah, he wanted to have a real relationship that wasn’t full of darkness and drama all the time. But the bigger part of it was about how deeply he cared for Mickey. He hated witnessing what he considered Mickey’s slow demise over a long period of time. If Ian couldn’t convince him that he deserved better, then what exactly was he doing sticking by Mickey’s side? He couldn’t just let himself be a doormat and get treated like shit just because he was in lo—no, he had to stop thinking of it that way.

What was done was done, ancient history style. The last time shit had fallen apart and Mickey had kowtowed to his dad, tossing Ian’s heart in a blender in the process, Ian had ended things. For good. Probably. He was as terrible at staying away from Mickey as Mickey was at staying away from him. He couldn’t even count how many times they’d renounced each other at this point, but he was doing what he could to make it stick.

That’s why Ian had to go and force things to be different now. He couldn’t risk just falling back into the same old toxic pattern with his wayward ex. There were so many good qualities in Mickey that no one else really got to see, but at the end of the day, they couldn’t outweigh the bad enough to strike a fair balance when it came to Ian.

So after much consideration of options, Ian had finally done what he’d always intended, professionally speaking, and signed up for the army.

It had been nearly 8 months now. Basic and AIT had gone well, considering all his years of ROTC, and now he was back home for a brief visit before being deployed for the first time. He was excited to finally be fulfilling his lifelong dream of being active military, but if he said he wasn’t nervous as shit too, he’d be lying. There was a definite fear there in the background of his mind, but he’d always kind of lived for danger in a way. He liked conquering it.

He supposed every soldier went off to war thinking they wouldn’t be one of the ones to die or get severely wounded, and maybe he was an idiot for believing it, but despite that inevitable fear, Ian truly knew he’d be okay. He trusted his instincts and reactions to volatile situations (thanks, Gallagher family trauma), so he had to trust himself. Maybe if he believed in the idea of coming out the other side of combat unscathed enough, he would manifest it.

Still, no matter his sixth sense, there was that feeling of wanting to make sure that he left everything in his life back home in a nice, neat place, just in case he was terribly wrong and never set foot back on American soil again. He needed all of his important relationships to be appropriately cemented. It was easy with his family (well, the siblings portion of it, at least), but Mickey was a whole different story.

Despite having broken it off months ago, the idea of leaving that whole thread hanging felt terrifying. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to feel closure with Mickey, but he had to try. There was a good chance he’d either get mocked, or socked in the face for making overtures, but he had to try anyway.

He felt resolute as he walked toward the Milkovich house, but once it came into view, his insides were consumed with nerves until his gut twisted with the weight of his apprehension.

What if Mickey wasn’t there? What if Terry and a bunch of Mickey’s idiot brothers were laying about? What if Mickey had done the unthinkable and married some random whore so he could pretend he was straight to please his dad? Ian would hope that either Lip or Mandy would’ve informed him of such a development, but since Ian liked to bury things and not talk about them, maybe they’d just decided not to bring it up?

He took a deep breath, muttered, “Fuck it,” to himself, and made his way to the front door. All he could do was try. If Mickey was gone, or had forgotten him, or didn’t care anymore, then he’d just have to accept it and move on.

He gulped thickly as he knocked, hoping that at least Mickey would be the one to answer, and that the ability to form words based on coherent thoughts would manifest as needed.

He steeled himself for whatever might happen, standing with his back straight as an arrow as the door wrenched open.

The moment those ice-blue eyes met his, every single thought flew out of Ian’s head, feeling breathless as blood rushed to his head. Without a doubt, he’d never seen Mickey so surprised before. His ex wasn’t the type to be at a loss for words, but his mouth hung open, and the full irises of his eyes were exposed, eyebrows raised high on his forehead.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there studying each other in silence before Ian gained the courage to speak.

“Hi, Mick.”

“Gallagher.” Clear uncertainty permeated his tone.

“Hope it’s not a bad time. Just wanted to talk to you for a minute?”

Mickey crossed his arms and widened his stance, walls going back up. “Been a long fuckin’ time. What, you find out you got an STD or some shit? Come to do the whole benevolent legal disclosure thing?”

One corner of Ian’s mouth lifted in a sad attempt at amusement. “Nah, nothing like that. Can I come in? Or if someone’s home, we can sit out here I guess.”

Mickey scanned him from head to toe, so Ian took advantage and did the same. “Never known you to come over for a _conversation_ before.”

Ian nodded. “Look, I won’t stay long. I really just have something I need to say. Then, if you never wanna see me again, you won’t. I’d just rather not do it awkwardly standing in the doorway if possible.”

Mickey shrugged and walked into the house, leaving Ian to follow. “Whatever, man. No one else is here right now. Terry’s in the slammer, so he won’t barge in or anything.”

“Cool,” said Ian, closing the door behind him.

Mickey sat down on the couch, but Ian had no idea whether to follow or not. Didn’t know how close to get. He hated feeling so weird around Mickey. In spite of everything, he’d always felt a strange sense of comfort and belonging when they were together. Like he could just be himself. Well, a somewhat ‘withholding of affection’ version of himself, but the rest felt natural.

“You gonna sit the fuck down and spit it out or what?” Mickey demanded.

“Right…” Ian took a seat on the sofa, leaving the entire middle cushion between them. “Uh… I don’t really know where to start now that I’m here.” He chuckled nervously.

“Jesus, Gallagher, you fuckin’ dying or somethin’?”

Ian grimaced, unable to tame that tiny pessimistic molecule inside himself. “No. Well, I hope not. Uh, I enlisted.” He looked up from his lap to gauge Mickey’s reaction, pleased to find his expression slipping into something more serious and less put-upon. “I’ve been away training. Shippin’ out tomorrow. Last night home and all that.”

Mickey exhaled raggedly. “Fuck, Ian. The fuck’d you do that for?”

“You know I’ve always wanted to, Mick. Childhood dream and all that. Finally found a reason to bite the bullet, so to speak.”

Mickey ran a shaky hand over his face, snickering derisively. “Wow. So you came here to tell me you’re runnin’ off to get shot, and that it’s pretty much my fault too? That’s real swell of you, Firecrotch. Real nice.”

Ian shook his head. “That’s not what I’m trying to say at all. It’s not a guilt-trip. I just needed you to know, in case…”

“In case what? You don't come back? You fuckin’ die?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Mickey shot to his feet and started pacing, running his hands through his black hair, and worrying his pink lip. “So what? Now I'm s'posed to lay awake worryin’ about your stupid, army-go-lucky ass every night? That’s not a fuckin’ guilt-trip?”

“No, Mick, it’s not. It’s not really about you, but I couldn’t just leave without seein’ you again. I miss you, okay? I stand by what I did, leaving… still feels like I had to do it… but that doesn’t just turn the feelings off. I thought about you a lot while I was away.”

“Christ, Ian, what are you talkin’ about? Just stop.”

Ian stood up and walked toward Mickey, forcing him to meet his eye without laying a hand on him. “I won’t. Not this time. I might never get another chance to say this, and it would be great if you could just shut the fuck up for once in your life and listen. I don’t care if you have nothing to say to me in return, okay?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, looking very uncomfortable.

“There's a lotta reasons I left,” Ian continued, “but that doesn’t mean that I wanted to, as much as I _needed_ to. You just never let me tell you what I was feeling. Which is fine. I always knew what you were about, and I know why you’re not out. I didn’t want to punish you, I just had to do it for me. Cuz I can’t live like that—”

“Why are you sayin’ all this shit to me _now_? It’s in the past.”

“I’m just trying to get to the point, fuck. Maybe I’m rambling. I just mean… I know you don’t wanna hear it, but I have to say it just once, and then I’ll go…” Ian took a deep breath, steadying himself for this ridiculous, sincere proclamation. “Mickey Milkovich, I love you. More than anything. And I’ll be thinkin’ about you while I’m over there. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m sure I’ll fade from your mind soon enough, anyway. But _I'll_ remember _you_. The good stuff, you know? And I’m sorry that it didn’t work out, but now you know.”

Ian smiled dimly and put a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, giving it a short squeeze. “Maybe this was selfish of me,” he added. “It feels good to get it off my chest, though. I hope you get to live your life the way you should one day, Mick. Just, you know… bein’ yourself. Not pretending. Happy; or something close to it. You deserve it.”

Mickey was as still and silent as a statue, probably completely unequipped to deal with all the shit Ian just threw at him, so Ian patted him on the cheek, moving to walk past. Which was fine. He hadn’t expected much more. The point was that Ian had said what he thought and felt, and now he could take that knowledge with him. Hopefully one day, Mickey would get it. Maybe take Ian’s words to heart. Maybe break away and live his truth in some way. And Ian would find his own path too. He was doing what he could to search for it.

He only made it a couple steps, though, before he felt Mickey’s hand slide around his wrist, pulling him back.

“Don’t,” he heard Mickey say softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Just… don’t.”

And then Mickey’s lips were on his for the first time in months, and he couldn’t believe it was happening. His sense memory activated, and he put everything he had into the kiss, in case it was all he got.

It wasn’t all he got, though, because Mickey’s passion matched his own in that moment, and their mutual understanding of each other’s bodies took over. The clothes were coming off before they even made it to the bedroom.

Ian hadn’t expected goodbye sex on his last night in town, but he definitely wasn’t unhappy to receive it… or give it, as it were. What he expected even less than that was Mickey suddenly becoming verbal again.

He was letting him stay the night, and they were practically sharing a pillow, just staring at each other. Not something that had usually been on the menu when they were together.

“Why’d you have to come say all this shit now?” asked Mickey. “When you’re just gonna leave again, maybe for good this time?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“That's not what I mean. I know you’re good at the army bullshit, alright? I’ve seen you shoot. Seen your nerd-ass training. But no one can control bullets and bombs in a war zone, Gallagher. Plus, even if all goes well, you might still settle down somewhere else, right? Go full army life and live full-time on a base somewhere.”

“Are you saying that if I were here you’d want things to be different?”

Mickey sighed, running a thumb over Ian’s cheek in a way that was almost gentle. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Mick—”

“It’s okay. You gotta do what you gotta do. But…”

“But what?”

“Since we’re talkin’ fuckin’ life and death and all that heavy shit… I should say… that I feel it too.”

“Feel what too?”

Mickey rolled his eyes and smacked Ian’s cheek. “You know what.”

“I really don’t,” said Ian, biting his lip with a mixture of anxiety and glee.

Mickey sighed very loudly, huffing and puffing like saying the actual words would kill him. “I…”

“ _You?_ ”

“God, I hate you. But I love you. I love your stupid, freckly, gingery ass. And I don’t fuckin’ want you to go off to war, okay?”

Ian’s grin stretched across his entire face. “You mean it?”

“No, I'm fuckin’ lyin’, cuz admitting warm and fuzzies is my favorite sarcastic pastime, asshole.”

Ian leaned forward and kissed Mickey tenderly once more. “Will you wait for me?”

“Don’t make me punch you in the face now, dipshit.”

“Will you?”

“Fuck no!”

“Yeah you will.”

“I really won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Fuck you, Gallagher.”

“I think we can squeeze a few more in.”

“You got the shittiest timing of anyone I’ve ever met.”

Ian shrugged. “Yeah, I know. Gallagher curse.”

“You stupid motherfucker. Better not die.”

When Ian got on the bus the next afternoon, he felt so much lighter. And the future was something that he looked forward to. Whatever came.

  


  



	5. Cell Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next: Mickey's locked up, so when he gets a cell phone, he puts it to sexy use with Ian. Based on the dialogue inclusion prompt: “I still remember the way you taste.”

Getting smart about how he acted behind bars was really starting to pay off for Mickey. Not only was he staying out of trouble so that he’d have a chance of making early parole, he was also forging advantageous relationships, mostly with the guards and the old-timers that liked to do good deeds like helping other inmates get an education or decent legal representation.

Little things like that, plus abstaining from shanking for pay or cold-cocking bitches who got mouthy, were making this Mickey’s most pleasant and drama-free stint in prison since his unceremonious induction into juvie ten years previous.

Along with his cooperation and best behavior came some quality perks: first pick of audiobooks from the dude he helped in the library; extra jello, pudding, and french fries from that dude’s kitchen husband; extended yard and gym time when the guard he had people doing favors for on the outside was on duty; and the holy grail, his very own recently acquired smartphone, which he could keep with him in his cell whenever the right people were working, and otherwise stow with a friend when sweep checks were imminent. All he had to do to get safekeeping was provide phone privilege favors. Gave him an extra source of income too, when he sold video call time to inmates on the side.

Tonight, though, he was finally gonna have the damn cell to himself all night long. His bunkmate had just been released, no one else had been assigned to his bed yet, and the overnight guard was a friendly. That meant that at long last, he’d be able to have some kind of sexual escapade with his boyfriend for the first time since he’d gotten locked up nine months ago. As a bonus, they could maybe stay up shooting the shit too. But really, Mickey was horny as hell, and he imagined that Ian was too.

They had a kind of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when it came to banging other people while they were apart, but as a rule, they weren’t allowed to do it more than once a month, or with the same guy twice, blowjobs included. That meant a lot of lonely masturbation sessions on both sides of the prison walls.

It was cruel that the only relief they could get from each other was by proxy of their own hands anyway, but at least now they’d be able to watch each other and egg each other on. It wasn’t the most ideal situation ever, but it was way better than having to stick to innocuous topics on the prison landlines that ran out at the ten minute mark.

This was going to be a treat.

He waited ’til 30 minutes past lights out just to be sure the coast was clear, counting down the minutes like a fucking schoolgirl waiting to make an illicit phone call after her parents fell asleep. As soon as the digital display hit 9:30, he was eagerly punching in the memorized number, smirking as he selected the video option.

He actually felt nervous as it rang, irrationally worried that Ian would be indisposed despite their agreed upon time and date. It took almost four whole rings before the display lit up, and a buffering vision of Ian appeared.

Mickey’s smile couldn’t help but mirror the cheerful redhead’s, and it only widened when he heard his deep, familiar voice.

“Hey, Mick.”

“Gallagher,” he replied softly and full of affection.

“I can barely see you,” Ian said with a chuckle. “That's not really fair.”

“Oh, shit, yeah. Forgot. Hang on.”

He’d managed to get his hands on a clip-on reading light through the library contraband network, so it would have to do. He dug it out from the hole in his thin-ass mattress pad and clipped it to the bar of the lower bunk, angling it toward his face and flipping it on. It wasn’t exactly super-bright, but it was good enough.

“Happy now? This is the best I could do on the after-hours lighting.”

“Yeah, I am. You look good.”

“Shut the fuck up. You look way better. Like a free man.”

Ian ran a hand through his hair, and Mickey wished it were _his_ hand. “It is a nifty advantage, but it’d be a lot better if you were next to me.”

“Yeah, no shit. I’m getting the rawer deal here.”

“Who’s fault is that?” Ian challenged with a raised brow.

Mickey licked his lips, humming. “Didn’t realize the purpose of this call was to get on my ass about gettin’ locked up. Thought we already did that fun routine.”

Ian sighed. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I just miss you.”

“I’m doin’ what I can, gingerbread. Might get lucky in the next few months. Been playin’ the game all nice like. No demerits on my scorecard.”

“I appreciate that. You know I’ll be waiting.”

“Mm.”

“So… what’s new?”

Mickey laughed. “You want me to recount the thrilling tales of the jailbird jerk-offs? How would that be interesting _or_ entertaining?”

“I’m pretty sure you witness more random acts of weirdness than I do everyday. You want me to talk about my job and coworkers, or my niece and nephew? I’m sure you’re dying to know on all counts.”

“Yeah, you got me figured out, Gallagher. That’s exactly why I wanted this dimly lit video call with your pale ass.”

Ian snickered. “Is this the part where we jump straight to the sex?”

Mickey shrugged and scratched his balls. “I mean, if we were in person without that fuckin’ glass between us, we woulda already been bangin’ by now.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“So?”

“What?”

“Show me your dick.”

Ian snorted, and it was nice to see him laugh unrestrainedly. They usually didn’t do too much laughing during his visits.

“It’s not hard yet.”

“Well, what the fuck you waitin’ for? Shoulda started before I called.”

“God, Mick, you really know how to romance a guy on his first date in nearly a year.”

“If this is a date, you got a really low bar, man.”

“Haven’t I always?”

“‘Ey! Fuck you.”

Ian laughed again and it made Mickey smile wide. He was gonna get addicted to these phone interludes, he could tell.

“Which reminds me… I expect you to take me out a few times when you get sprung, Milkovich. Restaurants, clubs, movies, the works.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Exactly how many acts of penance are on your little atonement list?”

“As many as I want. You got a problem with that?”

“You know I didn’t get locked up on purpose, right? Cuz I think you maybe don’t know that.”

“I think that I want you to stop putting yourself in situations where one of the possible outcomes is getting locked up. Cuz then we’re forced to resort to one sad long-distance video wank every nine months, which kinda fuckin’ blows, and not in the good way.”

“First of all, as long as I don’t get this shit confiscated by one of the asshole guards, we can keep doin’ this pretty regularly. Secondly, we haven’t even gotten to the wank part yet, so don’t call it sad. Also, is sex all that matters to you?”

“Says the guy who just told me to shut up and get my dick out.”

“Like you said, it’s been a long time.”

“And I’ve already told you that I miss you and want you beside me. I thought you wanted your dick stroked, not your ego.”

“Good one,” said Mickey, reaching down to fondle himself. “So how we gonna do this?”

“The only way we can, I guess.”

“Fine. Do I get to ask you to start touching yourself now?”

Ian giggled. “Yeah, yeah, let’s get it over with.”

“What kind of attitude is _that_? Get the hell on board or this ain’t gonna work.”

“Calm down and get your cock hard, convict boy.”

Mickey didn’t need to be told twice. He slipped his hand under the waistband of his boxers, rubbing and squeezing gently.

“You gonna give me somethin’ to look at or what?”

“Gimme a minute, fool. It’s not gonna be very pretty in its current state.”

They both went non-verbal for a while as their arms started working, the only sounds being stray gasps, rustling noises, and slick skin against skin.

“‘Kay,” urged Mickey, “lemme see it.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Fine, just flip the camera.”

Mickey pressed around and activated the rear camera with flash, licking his lips when the screen filled with Ian’s lower half, hand jerking his big dick in that perfect rhythm he remembered so well. It forced out a moan before he could catch himself.

“Mick,” Ian whispered, and he suddenly missed the feel of his boyfriend’s breath blowing hot against his skin as they fucked. And that just reminded him of the way he’d nip and lick at Mickey’s neck, or pinch his nipples at just the right time.

“Ian,” he groaned, his strokes getting faster and more deliberate now that he was fully hard. “Miss you.”

And that was definitely the lamest shit to say when you were supposed to be talking dirty for the purposes of video sex, but it’s what came out of his mouth on account of all the memories surfacing, coupled with the regret of not being able to put his hands on Ian or have Ian’s hands put on him.

Mickey had never wanted to suck a dick so badly in his entire life, simply because he was being denied the opportunity. He’d almost forgotten how delicious Ian’s cock really was. It could wreck him all night long, or Mickey could worship it a little on his hands and knees when the urge overcame him. He wanted it in him one way or the other. Keeping him away from it was cruel and unusual punishment.

“Wanna fuck you, Mick.” Ian was still using this soft, breathy voice that was making him crazy. “Wanna see your ass.”

Mickey’s hand faltered for a moment as he snickered. “How the fuck am I supposed to get you that camera angle right now, genius?”

“You really didn’t think this through enough first,” chided Ian.

“Suck my dick, Gallagher.”

“Mmm, I’d love to get my mouth on you right now. I still remember the way you taste.”

“Oh, shit.”

Mickey’s jerks got tighter with that fantasy egging him on, and silkier with the ease of the pre-cum oozing from his slit.

“You got something to stick up your ass?”

Mickey whined. “Fuckin’ wish. Don’t exactly got a dildo permit, and that’s the kinda contraband no one tries to smuggle or sell.”

“A finger or two will do, right?” asked Ian, pausing for a moment to squirt some lube into his hand.

“‘Ey! What the fuck? No fair! You want me to try and prop this thing somewhere so you can watch me finger myself without lube, and you’re gonna casually use some to jack off with right in front of me? Read the room, fuckhead.”

Ian chuckled. “Sorry, Mick. What happened to the mayo packets?”

Mickey grimaced, regretting ever having told Ian about sometimes using that condiment as lube when he wanted to spice up a solo sesh. “Shut the fuck up and just help me get a damn orgasm.”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know! What am I, the video sex expert?”

“You’re not a sexpert?”

“Now is not the time for your lame jokes, okay?”

“Yeah, okay, but I’ve never done this before either, jackass. I already made my request and you’re ignoring it. You do that for me, I’ll do something for you.”

“Fine, but if I do this for you, I won’t be able to see shit while it’s happenin’, so you have to fuckin’ wait to blow your load, or I’ll never do this with you again.”

“So is that your request? To see me blow my load?”

“Bitch, do I need to explain how porn works to you? You know how at the end of the video, you get to see everybody come? Jizz flyin’ everywhere?”

“Oh, believe me, next time we’re actually together in bed, I will cover you in jizz from head to toe.”

“That’s a lofty goal. Could take a while.”

“I’m willing to put in the hours. Now… get to it.”

Mickey sighed and let his cock fall out of his grip, glancing around to try and figure out how he could set the camera up in a decent place to where it would actually get what Ian wanted in frame.

“You’re gonna have to tell me if I need to adjust it, but I don’t have a lot of options, so just tell me when it’s good enough. Don’t need to get all Scorcese with the precision.”

It took a couple of minutes to figure out something that worked, his erection flagging to half-mast as he concentrated on the task Ian had given him. He was pretty sure that Ian should be the one going out of his way to give Mickey a nice show, but he figured if he let Ian have one first, he could make requests for their next long-distance fuck date.

Once Ian said it was good, Mickey kneeled and sat on his haunches, body remaining upright. He could only imagine what his asshole looked like through that badly lit phone camera, but whatever. At least he didn’t have to look at it. Ian could go crazy for it if he wanted to, and apparently he was if the renewed moaning was any indication.

“Get it wet,” Ian directed.

Mickey licked his palm and gave his cock a few tugs to get it back into the game, then spit in his hand and did what he could to work it around his hole. He was crouched with the damn top bunk rubbing against his bent head, with no view other than stiff white sheets and his own thighs and dick.

Yes, Ian was going to owe him a nice fucking show for this crap.

“Well?” the cocky little prick demanded. “Play with it.”

“Hold your damn horses, I ain’t a cam boy,” retorted Mickey.

With a deep sigh, he emptied his mind of the discomfort of his position and the embarrassment of his actions, and just went for it, wetting his finger with his mouth, then shoving it in as far as he could get it on initial entry. It wasn’t very far, but he wiggled and shimmied it as he slid it in and out, until eventually it was in as far as it could go from the angle he was in. He could faintly hear Ian going to town on himself, and he once again longed to be the one doing it to him. Pressing his ass back onto Ian’s cock instead of his own measly finger. Getting Ian’s big hand around his own dick while he did it.

As it were, he had to use his left hand to get some action on his dick, and as soon as he got back into the swing of things on that score, he set about trying to hit his prostate with his right hand.

“Add another one,” rasped Ian.

“You’re gettin’ real mouthy, ain’t you,” Mickey complained, wetting his hand again before sliding in two fingers to the knuckles.

“Oh, sorry, am I supposed to just remain quiet during this phone sex?”

“Stop sassin' me while I try to hit the spot. Some of us don’t got long-ass E.T. fingers.”

Ian chortled. “Jesus, Mick. Can you not bring my favorite childhood movie into this? Plus, you don’t need to go that deep. Just flip your hand over and crook your fingers. You’ll find it.”

“You think you know my ass better than I do?”

“Probably.”

Mickey did as suggested, even though it was the weirdest combination of body angles. It didn’t do anything at first, then all of a sudden, “ _Oh_.”

Both hands got fast and furious as he felt that familiar tingly throb building up inside. He let himself get lost in it for a few minutes, then came to just enough to realize that he wanted a visual of Ian to orgasm to. It’s what he'd been looking forward to all week.

All at once, he stopped, flipping onto his back and grabbing the phone. All he could see on screen now was the damn ceiling, which was annoying, but also hilarious, since it meant that Ian was probably holding the stupid phone a few inches from his stupid face.

“Why’d you stop?” asked Ian breathily.

“Cuz I wanna see you, numbnuts. As fascinating as your ceiling is, it'd be great if you got the main attraction back onscreen. Please and thank you.”

Ian tittered and angled the camera back down, pushing it past his sternum. “‘Kay, where’s yours?”

Mickey pointed his phone back toward his crotch, eyes extremely focused on Ian’s impossibly hard red dick and large pale hand, sighing when he touched himself again. He needed a finger or two back in his ass, though. He always came harder with something up his ass, and it reminded him more of Ian too.

But there was no way to film himself and still get a view of Ian, plus use both hands to get himself off. He had to choose one type of orgasm to have, and since he wasn’t entirely sure he could pop from anal only, he stuck with the jerking off.

Maybe Ian was right. He hadn’t thought this through enough. But he knew exactly what his daydreams would be scheming up until their next interlude.

“You gonna come all over yourself like I asked?” said Mickey.

“Just a sec,” Ian replied with a grunt.

Mickey’s hand synced up with Ian’s, flying up and down his length on the phone screen. “Wanna see it on your stomach and in your pubes.”

Ian’s moans and groans got louder and closer together, building Mickey’s excitement up to the edge.

And then of course his gay-ass boyfriend had to go and say some gay-ass shit like, “I love you!”

And then he was shooting jizz out the tip of his dick, letting it get everywhere.

And the effect was the same as a quality porno scene in that it made Mickey come too, eyes squinting shut as the sensations overwhelmed him. He wanted to throw the phone across the room, but he somehow managed to keep it resting against his chest and filming everything.

As soon as the last of it gushed out, he did let the phone drop next to him for a short time, and Ian must’ve been recovering too, because he didn’t hear any complaints. He reached for the toilet paper roll and wiped himself down as best he could, not bothering to put his shorts back on when he was done.

He flipped onto his stomach, picked up the phone and went back to the front camera, leaning it up against the wall as he burrowed a pillow under his chin.

“That was halfway decent, Gallagher.” He grinned in relaxed satisfaction.

Ian flipped his camera back too, lying on his side, and propping the phone up against what was probably the empty pillow next to him that Mickey should be on.

“You’ll get the real thing soon enough,” Ian replied with a sleepy smile.

“Fuckin’ hope so…” he trailed off in thought. “Sorry I can’t be there. It _is_ my fault.”

“Nah, just forget about all that, okay? All we can do now is get through the time that’s left. But if you think I’m not gonna ride your ass the non-sexy way when you get out, you’re dead wrong. Not gonna let this shit happen again.”

“You want me workin’ some minimum wage bullshit legit job?”

“Yep. We know how to be poor, Mick. Tired of getting the shitty end of all the risk.”

“Your pillow talk could use some work, Red.”

“I know. Thanks for showing me your asshole earlier.”

Mickey laughed. “No sweat. Well, probly _some_ sweat.”

Ian snorted and shook his head. “Shut up. I’m glad we get to do this. It’s nice being with you at bedtime.”

“Be nicer if it included your dick in my ass, but I guess it’s alright.”

“Want me to tell you about the boring shit now?”

“Might as well.”

“As long as you don’t fall asleep before you tell me you love me, bitch.”

Mickey frowned. “Normal people don’t shout that shit as they’re coming, you freak.”

“I don’t care when you say it, just fit it in.”

It wasn’t really something they could comfortably say to one another on their regular taped prison calls and visits. It was better for Mickey's orientation not to be common knowledge to the wrong people around the joint.

“I love you, you silly bastard, now tell me about your dumbass day.”

Ian smiled brightly. “Franny did the cutest shit…”

Mickey half-listened, content to be in the distant presence of Ian’s face, voice, and manner; imagining a day soon to come when they would be reunited for good in the great wide open.

  


  



	6. Ian's Box of Crap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next: Mickey discovers a notebook among Ian’s old possessions, and debates whether he should read it. Based on the dialogue inclusion prompt: “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

Being currently unemployed, Mickey didn’t have much of a leg to stand on when attempting to deflect Ian’s demands that he get chores and household tasks done while his husband was out earning an honest paycheck. He wasn’t even allowed to shake people down anymore, let alone pull robberies, or get back into the drug trade. Ian had made it clear that divorce wasn't off the table if Mickey deliberately did something stupid that got him thrown back in prison for a long stretch.

He didn’t much like being told what to do, but what he liked even less was not having Ian in his life. He’d had to go too many years without him in the past, and nothing good ever came during those times. Unfortunately, Ian Gallagher was it for Mickey Milkovich. That meant that he actually had to stay in line and put in the work if he didn’t want to lose him again. Ian wasn’t as soft as he used to be. Never really had been at his core, but the maturity of age had cemented his backbone rather rigidly, and Mickey was actually loathe to piss him off too badly these days.

So he did the bullshit grunt work requested of him, just to keep the peace. He was tired of fighting every day of his life, and what was the point of marrying Ian if they weren’t going to try and make each other happy?

In the past couple weeks, Mickey had done everything from laundry and dishes, to vacuuming and mopping. He’d patched up a couple of big holes in the wall that Frank had made, and fixed the loose parts of the wooden outdoor steps and banisters, both front and back. He’d even gone so far as to babysit the tiny, helpless Gallagher spawn a few times, which had been interesting and somewhat terrifying. Then Ian had given him this _look_ when he caught the scene one afternoon, eyes shining, smile beaming. It reminded him of that brief time they’d helped take care of Yevgeny, which made Mickey’s head spin. He didn’t need Gallagher getting the whole ‘having kids’ thing back in his head right now. Mickey was in no way ready for all that. Hadn’t been the first time, and they’d all seen how that turned out.

Today, he was supposed to clean out the attic. He told Ian that asking someone outside the family to do it sounded like a bad idea. How was he supposed to know what shit the Gallaghers wanted to keep, and what they wanted to get rid of? What if he made a mistake? If anyone had asked him what to keep from the hoarded piles of shit in the Milkovich house, he would’ve laughed in their face, then set everything on fire. Mickey wasn’t the sentimental type. So did Ian want him to just toss everything?

Ian had rolled his eyes, clarified that Mickey _was_ a Gallagher now, and given him a run-down. Anything that had obviously been made or cherished by a Gallagher kid, any family photos and albums, or small boxes of keepsakes, those stayed. Anything that wasn’t being used by anyone, but could be of use and handed down to the youngest or recently shacked up of them, set them aside to be put in rotation. Anything that worked, but they already had one of or didn’t need, donation box (because apparently they actually sometimes donated shit to the local shelter). And anything that looked completely unnecessary for anyone, throw it in a Best Choice trash bag, but don't take them to the curb yet. Ian would go over everything when he got home to make sure it was sorted correctly.

“So you’re gettin' me to do all this boring-ass grunt work, then you’re gonna have to go through it anyway? What the fuck, man?” he’d asked.

“It'll make the whole thing way easier on me, so can you just shut the fuck up and do me the favor? I’ll blow you later for your trouble.”

“Like you wouldn’t be doin’ that anyway.”

Ian had shrugged. “If you don’t, I won’t.”

“Threatening to withhold sex? That’s a bitch move if I ever heard one.”

“Whatever, deadbeat. You want me to support you, gotta help out when I ask. A blowjob would just be a bonus, because I’m generous of spirit.”

“I’m not gonna forget this hardcore manipulation, Firecrotch. I’ll get my revenge eventually.”

Ian merely kissed him on the nose. “Sounds like a plan. See ya.”

And he was out the door.

“Asshole,” Mickey’d muttered under his breath.

And now, a few hours later, here he was; sitting on the dusty, hard planks of the weird-smelling Gallagher attic, sorting through the memories and forgotten things of the family he’d married into less than six months ago. He’d dawdled as long as he could on the couch, eating junk food and watching his favorite daytime game shows, judge shows, and salacious ‘who’s the baby daddy?’ shows. The only hint of fun left in the remainder of his day was in the bong and the beer he’d brought with him up the rickety ladder. After every box sorted, he’d take a rip or two and chase the smoke with a long swig of cheap alcohol.

The most interesting things he’d found so far were some old pictures of Ian when he was little, his hair a curly mess, and his pale skin covered in dark freckles. His smile was too big for his face, and he looked goofy as all hell. Nothing like the hot hunk of man he was today. It was the Ian Mickey remembered from Little League a million years ago. And maybe he’d set one of the photos aside to keep for himself and taken some pics of others with his phone, so what?

Mostly he’d had to sift through little Debbie’s ridiculous girly shit, and Frank’s completely random assortment of insignificant trinkets with a side of what looked like bondage gear. He’d since moved on to a group of boxes obviously labeled by Carl when he was younger. He recognized the scrawl, occasional backwards lettering, and lack of possessive apostrophes. The words were short enough not to be atrociously misspelled, and consisted of a Gallagher first name in plural, followed by: ‘box of crap.’

Everybody had one, including Fiona, who hadn’t taken it with her when she’d left Chicago, and the kids she’d raised as her own, behind. The most scandalous item in there was a dildo of decent size that Mickey definitely would’ve packed in his suitcase if he’d been the one moving away as a single chick. The thought crossed his mind to pilfer it for his own collection, but he figured that Ian would be weirded out by the association. Sex toys were probably the only thing Gallaghers never shared between them.

Carl had a box of his own, semi-well-hidden compared to the others, and Mickey discovered why when he’d managed to get the copious amount of packing tape off. It was full of straight porn mags with big-tittied women and shaved pussies, underneath an array of dangerous weapons the family had forbidden him to have when he was underaged. He found everything from nunchucks, to throwing stars, to switchblades, to brass knuckles. No guns or attempted homemade bombs, thank fuck. He chucked the porn in the trash pile, cuz nobody needed to see that shit, and set the switchblade aside for himself, deciding to give the rest to Ian to sort out.

He saved Ian’s box for last, opening it up to find a grab bag of old army decorations, tattered paperbacks, comics, a bunch of loose paper covered in scribbles, and a stack of notebooks.

Mickey didn’t realize Ian was such a huge nerd that he’d kept his high school notebooks, but giving a quick flip through the first two revealed they weren’t school-related at all. He remembered Ian going through a phase when he was always writing shit down, ranting about having great ideas he needed to save for posterity. Before he went to the hospital. A manic phase. Probably one of many he’d cycled through, yet Mickey had missed some of those extremes.

Everything had been so chaotic then. He’d pushed Ian away, then gotten the same treatment in return. Their typical messiness pervaded everything back then. And now, he had in his hands Ian’s unfiltered thoughts about what happened back then.

“Fuck,” he said to himself, setting the notebooks down and going for the beer/weed combo again.

There were exactly two ways to go about this: he could put the notebooks back into the Ian box and not invade his privacy, or he could skim through them and hone in on the interesting relevant bits and maybe get a few long-pondered answers. On the one hand, Ian would probably get pissed if Mickey read them. On the other hand, Ian never had to know about it, did he?

It really wasn’t much of a choice… he’d always been curious as to what the hell was going through Ian’s head back in the day. They’d never exactly been great at talking things out, and he didn’t have it in him to try and make Ian relive some of the lowest moments of his life just to give Mickey some peace of mind. Plus, they were always facing some new bullshit obstacle head-on, so the past always just kind of got lost in the shuffle of their present difficulties.

Mickey took a deep breath and opened one of the notebooks again. The pages weren’t dated, and a lot of it didn’t make much sense. There were many lists with lines crossed out, but they didn’t describe things ‘to do,’ more like an endless inventory of concepts and feelings. The thought patterns were totally abstract, and Mickey couldn’t really make heads or tails of them. It hit him sharply in the chest when he realized that when Ian had been out of it, he’d _really and truly been fucking out of it_. These seemed like the crazed rantings of an unmedicated schizophrenic babbling on public transportation. It pained Mickey to the core, and it scared the shit out of him too.

He flipped through it fairly quickly, then opened the next one. It seemed to be calmer, more legible, and less unintelligible. It was more like a diary with bad poetry sprinkled in, and it only took a few pages for Mickey’s own name to jump out at him among the wall of words. It must have been written during Ian’s lost months, after going AWOL from the Army when he was 17.

He described running away from Chicago, scamming his early enlistment, crashing and burning his way out of bootcamp, shaking and selling his ass as a club boy, snorting, smoking, and swallowing all manner of substances, and crashing anywhere from penthouses to flophouses with sexual favors sprinkled in liberally. It was like the chronicle of a person going mad and coping in all the wrong ways. It surprised Mickey how emotional it made him to read these things in vivid detail. He’d completely forgotten how worried he used to be about Ian. When he was gone, when he went missing again, and when he started doing irrational things that could’ve ended so much worse than they did.

Ian was the one that had to live out all the drama and trauma of his disorder, but Mickey was the one caught on the sidelines, not having a single clue what to do or how to fix it. He’d never felt so useless or helpless in his entire life, even through all the bullshit he’d suffered growing up with Terry as a father. Maybe it was because of his age, or how Ian made him feel a certain way he’d never felt before. He just remembered hating it, and being so fucking sad.

These pages reminded him that through the mania, Ian was a bottomless well of sadness himself.

It was tough text to get through, and more than once, he felt like maybe he shouldn’t be reading it at all. Ian had never intended for other people to see his innermost thoughts, even Mickey. But it was impossible to stop now that he’d opened that floodgate. It was like reliving a part of their shared history through the eyes of his partner in crime. It was too fascinating.

After countless pages of dark tales from the void, Mickey came upon a page that was actually addressed to him. Surely, Ian had never intended to hand it over, but it was his nonetheless.

> _Mickey—  
>  I never had the balls to tell you this,  
>  But you’re the only boy I’ve ever loved.  
>  I thought you loved me too,  
>  But now I’m not so sure.  
>  I’m so confused and I go back and forth,  
>  Never really knowing what to actually think,  
>  Or what the truth is.  
>  All I really realize now is that  
>  I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.  
>  It took you forever to let me,  
>  And now I just do it with anyone,  
>  Cuz I don’t fucking care.  
>  I just miss you,  
>  And I wish you were here.  
>  But also, I don’t,  
>  Cuz I don’t want you to see me like this.  
>  I’m having a great time on my own adventure,  
>  But also not.  
>  You shouldn’t be a part of it right now.  
>  You’re on your own strange journey, I guess.  
>  Maybe one day we’ll be on the same road together again,  
>  And also for the first time, since we never really were._

Mickey barely had enough time to sniff and wipe away the stray tear that had fallen, when his husband’s voice startled him out of his reverie.

“You’re still up here?”

“Jesus Christ!” he cried out with a visible jolt of his body.

His head snapped toward the attic hatch, where Ian’s dumb red head was surveying the musty space. Mickey let the notebook fall from his grasp, but Ian was already climbing the rest of the way in before it occurred to him that he was about to be caught red-handed with journals that were supposed to be deeply private. He could only flip it closed and grab his beer to polish it off, before Ian was crouching in front of him and taking a seat.

“Can’t believe you actually did this for me, to be honest,” Ian said with a chuckle, glancing at the bong. “Anything left?”

“Baggie’s right there,” Mickey replied nodding his head to the left.

“Nice.”

Ian got distracted with loading a bowl, so Mickey very subtly tried to nudge Ian's notebooks aside with his foot, like maybe if they were slightly farther away, he could claim complete innocence as to knowing what they were.

He watched Ian take a couple hits before passing it to him, and Mickey welcomed the opportunity to temper his suddenly sullen mood.

“How was work?” he asked between hits, before passing back to Ian.

Ian snickered and furrowed his brow. “You never ask me about work.”

Mickey shrugged. “Don’t mean I don’t care.”

“Uh huh.” Ian looked even more skeptical, and finally glanced around at what Mickey had in his vicinity. That sent his brow up high, in a decent imitation of Mickey’s usual expressiveness. “Oh. That _my_ box?”

Mickey gulped and nodded. “Yeah. Just sorting it out. Should’ve just left the whole thing for ya. Sorry.”

Ian’s gaze snapped to his face. “You read stuff.”

It was a statement rather than a question.

“Just a little,” Mickey admitted. “I shouldn’t have. Fuck, I’m an asshole.”

But Ian only shook his head. “Nah, it’s okay.”

“You don’t have to say that. I’d be pissed.”

“I’m not. I promise.”

“ _Really_? You’re not mad?”

Ian shook his head again. “No. Actually, I’m kinda relieved.”

“How the fuck so?”

“It's all stuff I wanted you to know. I mean, part of me used to be really ashamed, maybe still is, but… another part of me always just wanted to be totally honest with you. In a way I haven’t ever been with anyone. Even Lip. But I didn’t have the words to say it, you know? And I know a lot of it is just scary rambling. I don’t even understand what some of it means, but the stuff that’s real… the lucid stuff… it’s depressing as fuck, but it’s the truth. We didn’t always tell each other the truth, but we showed each other. And this was something I couldn’t really show you. So maybe you were meant to find these. Do my dirty work for me.”

“Damn, Gallagher, that’s kinda heavy. _These_ were… kinda heavy. Made me feel shit I’d forgotten about, you know?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t read ‘em in years, but I remember. It’s why I wanted to put ‘em away, I guess. Plus, I didn’t want someone else snooping around and finding out too much. I mean, you never know in this house. It’s possible every fucking Gallagher already read them, but I hope not.”

“Ian…” Mickey started, but didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say. Words of reassurance? It was all in the past, and Ian was doing so well now. He was diligent about his medication, and he hadn’t spun out of control since before prison. Anything Mickey said now would just be cold comfort, since that notebook version of Ian barely existed anymore. Ian was always afraid that it would recur, but Mickey wasn’t. They were truly in it together now, and he’d never let Ian cross the threshold into the uncontrollable. “I wish I coulda been what you needed me to be back then. However impossible it was. Some of it was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even _my_ fault, really. It was some shitty shit that happened to me. I reacted the only way I thought I could. There’s no use in either of us wishing we’d done things differently now. At least we got the right outcome, right? We’re together.” He clasped their left hands so that their wedding rings touched. “Forever.”

Mickey couldn’t help but snort. “Okay, you didn’t have to get _that_ gay about it. I already had to suffer through a buncha your faggy teen poetry. I deserve a break from the high drama of it all.”

Ian laughed, kissed his hand, dropped it, then smacked him on the cheek. “Fuck you.”

“Just say when,” Mickey responded with a smile.

“After we go through all this shit, Romeo. Explain the piles.”

“Well,” said Mickey, pointing to the nearby corner, “Carl has a shitload of contraband in there. Weapons, not drugs. Frank has some shit that might be S&M gear, not sure, then aside from your lunatic journal ramblings, everything else is boring as shit. Oh, and Fiona left a big blue dildo.”

  


  



	7. Down the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next: Ian and Mickey take care of Franny and Freddie for the day. Based on the dialogue inclusion prompt: “People are staring.”

Freddie was teething, which was the first reason Ian maybe should’ve said no to watching him for the day. Even the cutest baby on the planet could curdle your blood when their red-faced screaming was nearly non-stop. Shoving cold rubber rings in his mouth worked alright, but as soon as the numbing iciness wore off, it was wail city all over again.

“Will you just do the whiskey thing? Please! Fuck!” His husband was not as patient as he was about the woes of helpless infants.

“That’s what Frank would do, and I don’t think anyone should be emulating that jackass,” said Ian, bouncing his whimpering nephew on his knee.

“I don’t give a shit, we just need the kid to shut the hell up before my eardrums explode,” Mickey replied.

“I don’t think Lip would appreciate me giving his child his first taste of alcohol given, you know, his personal history with it.”

“Christ, Ian, we’re not throwin’ a shot down his gullet all willy-nilly, it's just enough on your finger to coat his gums with. A zero-year-old won't remember the taste of their mother's breast milk, let alone a few tiny drops of hooch.”

Ian was still skeptical, but he’d definitely heard of the whiskey trick before. And yeah, pearl-clutching modern moms weren’t about to put that rec on their ‘Baby & Me’ blogs, but cocaine used to be a common remedy served to people of all ages once upon a time, so…

He looked down into Freddie’s pathetic, cranky face. “Fuck it, I guess we can try it and never say a word.”

Mickey threw his hands up. “Fuckin’ thank you!”

In less than 30 seconds, Mickey was waving a bottle of Jack in his face.

“Okay, so, how should I do this?” Ian asked.

“Just shove your finger in, flip the bottle over, stick your finger in his mouth. Get it all over where the teeth are comin’ in. You simple or somethin’?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d cool it with the goddamn insults today, okay? I have enough childish crap to deal with.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, but bit his tongue, which Ian was happy for.

“Uncle Mickey, Uncle Mickey!” Franny ran up and started tugging on Mickey’s pant leg, which made Ian bite back a smile.

His niece had taken a completely unexpected liking to his surly husband, much to her mother’s chagrin and Ian’s delight. Mickey fronted like it was off-putting, but it was easy to see that underneath that, he actually doted on her. It was getting to the point that Ian was starting to worry he might have some competition for favorite uncle. Lip had his own kid to deal with, Carl was always off on his own trip, and Liam was more like a brother in that weird way that Gallagher family dynamics always got kinda skewed since they’d all raised each other.

“What up, Polly Pocket?”

“I wanna play shoot out!” she demanded.

“Gimme a minute, kid. We need to get the baby to stop cryin’ first, alright?” said Mickey.

“Let Uncle Ian do it!”

“He is, kiddo, but we gotta help him out, okay? You can wait ten minutes. Why don’t you build us a fort.”

“For fighting?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay!”

Ian shook his head. “You really got her advocating the ol’ ultra-violence, huh?”

“Ain’t my fault she prefers machine guns to tiaras. Debbie can kiss my ass with that shit. I’ll play whatever she wants me to play.”

“Then I look forward to the princess tea party phase. You’ll look good in a pretty pink dress.”

“Will you do the damn thing, already?” Mickey ordered. “Quit stallin’.”

Ian sighed. “Yeah, alright.”

He laid fussy Freddie back on his knees and flipped the liquor bottle onto his forefinger, handing it over to Mickey once he was done. Without preamble, he pulled Freddie’s chin down with his other hand and shoved his finger in his mouth, rubbing against the little bumps on his bottom front gums, then around the rest of them. Freddie made a hilarious face when the strange taste hit his tongue, and his face scrunched up in something other than pain, which made Ian laugh.

“Is that icky?” he asked him. “Get your gums a little tipsy?”

He tickled his tummy and blew raspberries on his cheek. When he looked up, Mickey was staring with mild amusement and one arched eyebrow.

“You think it worked?” Ian inquired.

Mickey shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out. If not, we could always give him some baby Benadryl.”

“Mickey!” he chastised, while his husband laughed.

Ian lifted Freddie up and started pacing around with him over his shoulder, bouncing all the while, and within minutes, he was much calmer.

“Told ya,” said Mickey.

“We get a temporary reprieve, I guess. Make sure all the teethers are in the freezer, though, please. We’ll need ‘em again soon. And then go play with Franny before she throws another fit.”

Franny was going through an obstinate phrase lately. She was usually still fun to be with unless you were Debbie, but sometimes she’d pull the same shit with whichever grown-up was around, and it could be very unpleasant. The best thing to do was keep her occupied and let her call the shots (within reason).

As if on cue, Franny hollered from the alcove beneath the living room stairs, “UNCLE MICKEY!”

“Coming!” he called from the kitchen.

Ian decided to try for nap time upstairs while the two wannabe warmongers did their faux bullet barrages and grenade detonations.

Rather than put Freddie down in Liam’s old crib, Ian put a pillow against the wall and laid him on his bed so he could get in next to him. Mickey had a bad habit of keeping Ian up late at night in the interest of sex and silliness, so after a full morning of crying baby boy and demanding preschooler, he could use the rest too. He trusted Mickey enough with Franny, at this point, to handle her alone for an hour.

Ian rubbed Freddie’s tummy, urging him to drift off, unaware of when it happened for himself.

He awoke with another little face staring down at him, accompanied by a little hand smacking him on the cheek, and a whispery, “Uncle Iiiiaaannn.”

Ian sighed and glanced over to find Freddie gone. “Wha?”

He sat up quickly and Franny giggled. “Sleepyhead.”

“Where’s Freddie?” he asked groggily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“He woke up. Uncle Mickey took him downstairs.”

Ian nodded. “Okay. What are you doing up here, then?”

“I’m bored!”

Ian rolled his eyes and reached for his phone. He was out for about an hour and a half. “You can’t get everybody’s undivided attention _all_ the time, Fran. You’ll learn that eventually.”

“Freddie’s crying like a baby again,” she informed him.

“Yeah, well, he _is_ a baby. That’s what they do.”

“I didn’t.”

Ian snickered. “Sorry to break it to ya, but you kinda did. A lot.”

“No!”

“Yes. And so did I, and so did your mom.”

“Mom was a _baby_?”

“Yep. We all were, once. We all start out that way, and then we grow up, and then we get old.”

“Weird,” she answered.

“Pretty much.” He ruffled her hair. “Go downstairs. I’ll be there in a minute. Gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Can I come?”

“No. Go see Uncle Mickey.”

“Grrrr!” She stomped her feet across the floor and began hopping down the stairs one at a time.

“Of course she's Debbie’s kid,” Ian muttered to himself, making his way to relieve his bladder.

The sight that greeted him when he made it downstairs was cute as hell, even from behind, so he took his phone out of his pocket and snapped a pic, then snapped another when he came around to the front of the couch. Mickey was sitting with a teething ring shoved in Freddie’s mouth on his lap, and Franny leaning into his side as they watched old Looney Tunes cartoons.

“Fuck off, Gallagher,” said Mickey, and Franny laughed.

“You’re gonna feel like an asshole when she starts copying you soon.”

“Good thing she ain’t my kid, then.”

Ian gestured to Freddie. “You doing okay with him?”

“Looks like it.”

“Maybe you should start running a Gallagher daycare like Debs used to.”

“Sure, if you wanna see me burn the house down and go away for life for child murder.”

Franny laughed again, and Ian gave him a pointed look. “Could you please _not_ with the child M-U-R-D-E-R jokes?”

“You hear that, Franny? That’s how you spell ‘murder.’”

Ian threw himself on the couch on Mickey’s other side and punched him on the arm. “I’m not gonna stop shit from going down if either of my siblings come after you for the crap you’ve been teaching their kids.”

“Never needed your ass to step in before, have I?”

“That's debatable.”

“Name one time I needed your ass to save me in a fight.”

“Uhhh… the Alibi? The night you came out?”

“That's _one_.”

“Isn’t one enough?”

“I’ve had your back more than that.”

“You mean you’ve kicked my ass more than that.”

“You’ve kicked mine!”

“I hit you _once_ without you hitting me first!”

“The fuck ever—”

“PARK!” yelled Franny, interrupting their argument.

Ian and Mickey shared a look, tacitly asking if they should in fact take them out to the park, and deciding that it was probably a good idea with a mutual shrug of their shoulders.

“I guess we could go to the park,” Ian acquiesced.

“Yay!” cried Franny, jumping off the couch and running up the stairs.

“She better collapse in exhaustion when we get back,” said Mickey.

“No shit,” replied Ian. “Thanks for letting me sleep a while, by the way.”

“Whatever. Kids ain’t so bad, really.”

Ian smiled widely and bussed him on the cheek. “Been tryin’ to tell you that.”

“Still ain’t havin’ any with your ass, though.”

“We’ll see.”

  


Things started out fine when they left the house. Mickey had dipped a frozen teething ring into a swig of whiskey and stuck it in Freddie’s mouth as they strapped him in the stroller. Ian grimaced, but let it happen. If Liam hadn’t suffered any long-term effects from the coke he’d managed to ingest as a toddler, he supposed Freddie would be fine ingesting a few drops of alcohol.

He let his husband push the baby, while he took the lead with Franny, holding her hand tightly no matter how much she tried to wriggle out of his grip. They strolled down the street like a couple of old queens with a beautiful family, which gave Ian a little thrill. If their teenage selves could see them now, he’s not sure which one of them would have a tougher time believing it, whether the kids were actually theirs or not.

No matter Mickey’s resistance, Ian could see how comfortable he was becoming with the Gallagher dynamics, children included. The fact that Lip and Tami trusted Mickey enough to let him have any kind of responsibility when it came to their son, Ian’s presence aside, was a pretty big deal. And even though Debbie liked to scapegoat Mickey for Franny’s increasing tomboyishness, Ian knew that she still saw him as someone Franny could count on. It was only a matter of time before Mickey would get used to the idea of adding onto the family tree themselves.

It was only a ten minute walk to the park, but Franny was already starting to get bitchy, despite being the one to request this little outing.

“How ‘bout an ice cream?” Ian offered when he spotted the cart.

He knew it was akin to a bribe, but whatever. He was the uncle, he was supposed to spoil her on occasion. $1.50 was a fair price to pay to delay a temper tantrum until after she could tire herself out on the playground.

He gave her the money and let her order for herself.

“You’re way too fuckin’ soft, man,” said Mickey. “Let her little red ass walk all over you like a bitch.”

“Look, she’s so fucking stubborn lately that she barely naps. Keeps falling asleep in her dinner at night, refusing to eat her vegetables. If some sugar, followed by some running around like a gremlin, will help her crash the hell out when we get back, then I’m all for it.”

“This is the last time we agree to take both these rug rats all day long. I’m capping it off at 3 hours, max. That’s enough for your bitch-ass siblings to handle an appointment, or some errands, or go bang their stupid brains out on some lame date night. I ain’t doin’ this 8-hour work shift crap.”

“It was an anomaly, Mick. Usually, everybody’s got it covered. We can step in every once in a while. It's what Gallaghers do.”

“I ain’t a fu—”

“You _are_. Now shut your trap and find us a bench to sit on near the playground. Your turn to push her on the swings.”

“How is it _my_ turn? We never been here together before.”

“Yeah, cuz I always bring her alone. Hence… your turn.” Ian smiled pointedly.

Mickey flipped him off and rolled away with Freddie, while Ian helped Franny open her Strawberry Shortcake bar.

She got about half of it down before it started melting all over her fingers, so she pawned it off on Ian, who shoved the remainder in his mouth all at once and made grabby hands at Mickey.

“The hell you want?”

Ian rolled his eyes, talking around the popsicle stick, “Wet wipes, dumbass.”

Mickey sighed exaggeratedly and rummaged in the baby carriage, then handed over a wipe to Ian, who proceeded to clean Franny off.

“You want the swings first or last?” Ian asked her.

“First!”

He threw Mickey a look and presented the swing set with his arm.

“You owe me for this crap,” his husband muttered at him quietly as he passed by.

Ian just gave him another big annoying grin, adding a thumbs up for good measure. “Have fun!”

He took Freddie out of the stroller so he could sit in Ian’s lap and observe the bigger kids playing nearby; perhaps catch sight of a pigeon, or someone’s dog. He bounced him happily on his knee, ignoring the unwanted female attention from passersby. What was it about dudes on their own with babies? Like lady catnip.

Mickey looked adorably grumpy pushing his niece in what appeared to be a casual way, but he could tell he was making sure she was secure before propelling her higher and higher into the air. Franny was giggling wildly, and Ian couldn’t help the butterfly sensation fluttering through him at the sight. This was the kind of sappy shit he could get used to.

Once Mickey tired of pushing, he slowed the swing down and sent Franny running for the main climber/slide combo to mix with the other rascals. He reached Ian just in time for Freddie to start fussing again, so Ian quickly got out the cold teether and shoved it in his mouth.

“He probly wants a bottle now,” said Mickey. “Been a while since the last one.”

“He can wait 'til we get home. Might take another nap-a-roo when Franny goes down. Give us some alone time.”

“Sounds like a pipe dream to me, but okay.”

“Thirty minutes of her playing her ass off, then walking home, is all we need. My nefarious plan will work.”

Freddie spit the teether out and latched onto Ian’s finger instead, biting down with the sharp little incisors poking through his hard gums.

“Ow!” groused Ian, but didn’t move his hand. As long as the baby was happy, he could withstand a little pain and slobber.

Mickey didn’t waste any time laughing at him, though. “He definitely wants the titty.”

“Ugh. Can’t imagine one of these chomping on my nipples all day and night. So fucking weird.”

“Imagine shooting one out of the small, private orifice you usually use for sex stuff.”

“No thank you.”

“Women are nuts.”

“Absolutely.”

Not fifteen minutes later, Freddie started up with his crying. Ian checked his diaper, but it was dry, so he decided to start walking with him to see if that would calm him. It didn’t, and five minutes later, he had a full-on bawl on his hands.

Franny ran up and started shouting, “I wanna go home! Uncles! I wanna go home!”

She stomped around in a small circle, making her new favorite grunting sounds, while Freddie’s screams just seemed to get louder. Ian was doing what he could to soothe him, but he kept spitting out his pacifier, and the back caresses and gentle humming seemed to be doing fuck all.

By the time he turned around again, Franny was crying too, more of a fake sniveling, but staring straight at Mickey as if he’d wronged her in some way.

“I wanna go home! I’m tired!” she yelled in her tiny voice.

Mickey looked extremely uncomfortable, frozen in place. “People are staring.”

Ian glanced around. It was true. “Please get the fucking stuff together and put her in the stroller. I’ll carry him.”

Franny, of course, pitched a fit about being put into the stroller, since she never used one anymore, and Mickey looked very close to losing his cool, but he didn’t. Ian didn’t have enough of an attention span to figure out exactly how Mickey coerced her into the damn thing, since he was busy walking away with the upset infant.

They made the ten minute walk back home in under seven minutes, but it seemed like at least thirty. Neither Ian, nor Mickey had spoken a word, just doing their best to hold it together.

Ian sat Freddie down in his playpen as soon as they came through the door, glancing at Mickey, “Please get his bottle ready. I’ll get Franny down. You know how to check the temp, right?”

Mickey nodded. “I got it.”

“Thanks.”

Ian got Franny out of the stroller and carried her up the stairs. She complained all the way to her bed, but he barely paid attention, going through the motions of undressing her down to a tee shirt and underwear, then tucking her in.

“I don’t wanna sleep! I’m not a baby! Nap time is stupid!”

“Franny, even adults take naps, okay? Don’t you remember waking me up a couple hours ago? I was taking a nap. Sometimes you just need it.”

“Sleeping is dumb! Can’t do anything when you’re asleep.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But it's how you get your energy back. If you don’t rest up, you can’t do more stuff. That’s just a part of being human.”

“Human?”

“Yeah, human. That’s what we are. Human beings. People. Our bodies work a certain way. It doesn’t make sense, but that’s just the way it is.”

“But I don’t want to.” He could tell she was fading fast, despite the valiant attempts to put it off.

“Sometimes you gotta do stuff you don’t wanna do, baby girl.”

He caressed her forehead in a way that Fiona used to do for him. It always relaxed him, and she’d told him it helped him fall asleep. Tricked him into closing his eyes.

After a few quiet minutes, it seemed to work. She finally gave in and started dozing. He stayed a couple minutes more to make sure, satisfied when she didn’t stir as he left the room.

He was worried about what he would find downstairs with restless Freddie and flustered Mickey, but was very pleasantly surprised at the actual scene.

The baby had definitely needed a bottle, and Mickey was cradling him in the correct hold, the milk almost gone by now, as Freddie eagerly sucked it down with his little humming and breathing noises. It reminded Ian acutely of Yev, but he was usually too nervous to even bring his name up to Mickey. Yevgeny had been a part of their lives that didn’t work out, and most likely would never come back into play. They couldn’t see Svetlana ever returning to their neighborhood to mend fences and forge new pathways. But at some point, they’d been a kind of family together, as thoroughly unconventional as it was. For that brief time, it had felt like they had a baby together. They had a son. And Ian liked the feeling. It was more complex for Mickey for obvious reasons, but he’d accepted it and played the dad role for just a while.

As fucked up as Ian and Mickey still were, and how much they struggled to get on their feet, or figure out how to walk together into a future that was different, Ian could see a glimpse of the possibility.

It started with making an effort and accepting responsibility. And if they could do that for their niece and nephew, they could do that for their own children someday.

He made his way to the couch, and scooted close to Mickey’s right side, caressing the crown of Freddie’s head.

“Well _that_ turned into a giant shitshow,” said Mickey with a titter.

Ian shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“You kiddin’ me? That was a meltdown of Britney proportions back there. Times two.”

Ian snorted. “I love how you randomly sprinkle in the gay references at the most unexpected moments.”

“Still jealous that she used to bang Justin?”

“Maybe a little.”

“The reality of a full day of babysitting finally put you off this stupid ‘let's have kids’ idea?” asked Mickey.

“Not really,” Ian answered honestly. “I mean, most of the day was fine. Freddie’s going through a natural baby thing, we can’t blame him for being in pain. Franny’s got her own growth crap going on, and it’s typical shit you gotta put up with to raise a decent child. The park outing was good until it wasn’t, but we got ‘em back here and took care of ‘em, right? Now they’re both out like lights.”

He looked down to see Freddie’s eyes closed, the bottle nipple limp in his mouth. He reached for him, getting him into position to be burped before he laid him down.

“You really wanna have to do all this crap? 24/7 newborn, infant, toddler, child, teen bullshit for almost twenty fuckin’ years? And the way you Gallaghers never move away, we’re probly talkin’ lifetime commitment.”

“Says a Milkovich.”

“‘Ey, fuck the fuckin’ Milkoviches, alright? I’ve disowned all those fuckers. ‘Cept Sandy. She’ll end up on the same page with me soon enough, anyway. And maybe if Mandy ever shows her ass back around here at some point in her life.”

Ian nodded. “I miss Mandy so much. But look… whatever our family ends up being… it doesn’t have to end up looking like the Gallaghers _or_ the Milkoviches. It’ll be our own thing that we figure out together.”

“I just don’t understand why you want all this _work_. Could just be the two of us for the long haul. That don’t sound good to you?”

“It does, Mick. For a while. But _then_ what? Not like we’re gonna be traveling the world and shit. Gotta find something new to move on to, you know? And at the end of the day, I’ve just always liked kids. It’d feel weird without them around.”

“Just gimme some time, alright? Can’t we just chill for a few years? You and I never had time to just fuckin’ chill. Ever.”

Ian sighed, and he felt Freddie belch up some formula vomit onto his shoulder. “Of course, Mick. We got plenty of time. But I don’t wanna feel like I’m forcing you into something that major, so I need you to get on board. Eventually. You gonna be able to do that?”

Mickey nodded, grabbing a nappy and wiping Ian’s shoulder off for him with a smirk. “Told you before we got married that I would. Just not now, yeah? Down the line?”

Ian nodded and laid the baby down in the playpen. When he returned to the couch, he straddled Mickey's lap and draped his arms over his shoulders.

“Down the line works for me.”

Mickey wrinkled his nose. “That spit-up on your shirt is real fuckin’ sexy, Red.”

“Thanks, I put it there special for you.”

“Very thoughtful.”

Ian leaned in and kissed him, pressing him farther into the cushions.

“Liam’ll probly be home soon, so… we should make the next ten to fifteen minutes really count.” He ground down against Mickey’s body, tilting his husband’s head back so he could nip and kiss at his throat.

“On the couch?” asked Mickey, squeezing Ian's ass with both hands.

“If we hurry and stay real quiet.”

“What about the lube?”

“Sounds like a task for you to run off and take care of while I get naked.”

“I’m the one that fed the baby!”

“While I put Franny to sleep.”

“Come on, man!”

“Mickeyyyy. Please?”

“God, you suck.” Mickey huffed, pushing Ian to the side as he stood.

“I’ll do that too. Later tonight. Right now, we only have time for the main event.”

“Please close your mouth and get your cock out. If someone walks in before I get back, you’ll probly have some ‘splainin’ to do. Perv.”

Ian threw him a middle finger. “Chop-chop, bitch.”

  


  



	8. Overboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Mickey gets Ian something unexpected for their anniversary. Based on the dialogue inclusion prompt: “It’s three in the morning.” + “Just trust me.” + “You could have died.”

Ian was dead asleep when loud, distant noises began invading his dream state. He ignored the disturbance at first, having grown up surrounded by a large amount of people making a wide array of sounds at any and all hours of the day and night. Gallaghers tended to be hard sleepers.

His awareness came into sharper focus with the continued thuds on the other side of the wall rebounding in the mostly empty space. He exhaled loudly through his nose as he sat up, still a bit disoriented when he looked around his new bedroom.

They’d only moved into their new place a couple weeks ago; the bulk of their things still strewn about in cardboard boxes and plastic bags all around the small house, the furniture and decor sparse as hell.

He ran a hand over his head and wiped the sleep out of his eyes, feeling around his husband’s side of the bed, where no warm body was where it was supposed to be.

He frowned in the dark as he called out, “Mick?”

“Motherfucker!” he heard muffled beyond the door, followed by another thunk.

He sighed and shucked the covers off, swinging around to sit at the edge of the bed. Their room was so big now that they actually each had room to get out on opposite sides. Fuck being shoved into a corner or having his feet hanging over the end of the mattress anymore. They sprung for a King size, and it was the best purchase Ian had ever made. More room to sleep, more room to fuck, more room to be happy when he woke up.

Right as his feet hit the cold hardwood floor, the door burst open.

“Don’t move, Gallagher!”

For a split second, he almost raised his hands in submission, thinking some local shitheads were pulling a home invasion or something. But he’d recognize that voice anywhere, and he could vaguely make out the face and the shape of him.

“What the fuck, Mickey?”

His dumbass husband was behaving in a highly suspicious manner. First of all, he was wearing that stupid black camo shit they bought when they first started doing weed security, complete with leather gloves and a knit hat he suspected was a full face mask. He was also huffing and puffing like he’d just expended a lot of energy.

“Stay put for a bit, then you can come see,” said Mickey, pulling the hat off his head and throwing it toward the lone dresser they had against the far wall.

“Why are you”—he glanced at their little, old digital clock—“It's three in the goddamn morning. Did you sneak out after I went to bed?”

The moon illuminated the room more clearly now, and he caught the eye-roll. “Just trust me, sweet-dick. I got a surprise for you.”

“Huh? I thought we agreed, no fucking threesomes. If you were out trolling for cock, I’m gonna”—

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, will you shut up? Just sit your pretty ass tight and wait 'til I call you into the living room, alright? There’s no one else here but us. Jump to conclusions, much?”

Ian nodded. “Fine, whatever.”

He yawned widely and reached for the small lamp on the raggedy placeholder nightstand next to the bed, squinting when the low-level light hit his tired eyes.

He could still hear a lot of activity, like Mickey was moving something heavy around and searching for something else, stomping around with his combat boots still on. Ian had no earthly idea what the hell his idiot life partner was up to whatsoever. This was pretty unusual, even for as unconventional a person as him. To Ian’s knowledge, Mickey never snuck out late at night to do anything without saying a word about it. If this was some weird regular thing he was keeping from him, they were probably going to have a big fucking problem.

“Alright!” hollered Mickey. “Get your ass in here!”

Sometimes he wondered why he signed up for a lifetime of gruff orders and putdowns. Even though he could dish it back, he occasionally got sick of all the sharp edges. Things were mostly settling down between them though. Mickey was starting to mellow out again lately, and they were fighting far less than they had been there for a while.

He shuffled down the short hallway toward the living room, stretching the kinks out of his neck and back as he went. Mickey was standing in the middle of the barren room with his arms crossed, looking at the wall next to where they were planning on making a small dining area. Right now, they merely had a metal folding table and some cheap vinyl lawn chairs among the random piles of possessions they’d cobbled together. They'd agreed to buy one piece of furniture per paycheck until they were set, as Ian wouldn’t sign off on any more bouts of larceny (grand, petty, or otherwise).

There was a large something now leaning against the wall, covered by a ratty blanket, with colorful beams of light escaping the sides.

Ian furrowed his brow. “Uhhhh… what the fuck is this?”

“What’d’ya mean, Mr. Milkovich? You forget what day it is?”

“Huh?” It was far too late for fucking mind games or pop trivia.

Mickey elbowed him to get his attention. “Wake the hell up, sleepyhead.”

“I _am_ fucking awake! Can you just tell me why, without all the riddles?”

“Man, you’re dumber than shit sometimes, you know that? What date is it, now that it’s after midnight, genius?”

Ian squinted again for a second before the lightbulb finally went off in his brain. “Anniversary.”

“Ding, ding, ding! Score one for fuckin’ _Beautiful Mind_ over here.”

“I thought we set rules about gifts, Mickey.” They definitely had.

Since they were sinking all of their income into moving out and setting up an entire household, Ian thought it would be silly to buy each other frivolous stuff for their first wedding anniversary. Well, that, and if left up to Mickey, he had no idea what he’d come up with for Ian anyway. He wasn’t exactly known for giving gifts. He surprised him a lot over the years, sure, mainly by showing up when Ian needed him most and least expected him to be there. But those days were over now, and since they’d engaged in this traditional, archaic ritual of marriage, Ian wasn’t sure what all niceties and celebrations they’d perform for each other.

It’s not like they remembered any other important dates in their long, stop-and-go relationship history. The first time they hooked up, or when they actually officially became a thing. Their wedding date was the closest thing they had to dedicate to remembering their ongoing commitment to each other.

So Ian had suggested that whatever they gave to each other to mark the occasion this year, it couldn’t cost any money. This left him with a dilemma at first, because Mickey wasn’t particularly sentimental, and Ian wasn’t particularly artistic. He couldn’t make him a painting, or write him a story. But then it occurred to him that they needed all this furniture, so why couldn’t Ian use his hands to maybe build some himself? He watched some YouTube videos and talked it over with Lip, who ended up helping him out. He found out where he could “reclaim” wood, and scour scrap metal and junk, and threw together enough raw materials to make a coffee table and a pair of end tables. Lip gave him the varnish he needed for the finishing, and voila. That was his gift for Mickey. Not terribly sexy or exciting, but meaningful in its own way.

He pretty much assumed Mickey would just orchestrate the filming of their porno or something, but apparently he’d actually come up with something tangible. But even though he couldn’t see it yet, it didn’t look like something he could’ve made himself.

“And I followed ‘em,” answered Mickey. “Didn’t pay for shit.”

Ian sighed deeply, shaking his head as he grabbed the bridge of his nose. “When we said it couldn’t be anything that could be bought, it was implied that we had to make it ourselves. It could’ve even been a sex act. A fuckin’ mixtape. A digital photo album!”

“Fuck all that, you never said we had to make it.”

“Did you steal this?”

“What do you think?” Mickey arched an inimitable eyebrow, and Ian wanted to kiss him and also throttle him.

“I should’ve seen that loophole coming from a mile away.”

Mickey shrugged. “Yeah, probly, so that’s on you. Are you gonna fuckin’ take the damn blanket off or what? Gotta unwrap it for the big reveal.”

Ian stepped forward, feeling both nervous and excited. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what the hell it was Mickey had lifted for him that would be that big and glowing, or why it would even be something Ian would want.

He pulled a corner of the blanket back, making sure it didn’t catch on anything as he uncovered it. He walked back a few paces, his mouth falling open as recognition dawned. He was dead silent for a moment, before letting out the longest, most gleeful cackle imaginable, turning to the absolutely ridiculous love of his life.

“What the actual fuck, Mickey! Did you get this by yourself?”

“May’ve had some help from your favorite brother. He owed me.”

“You're fucking crazy. You could’ve died!”

“But I didn’t.”

“How did you even… there’s no way you could’ve pulled this off without being seen.”

“We may have orchestrated a careful series of events that let us do it in plain sight.”

“But the height!”

“Roof access was a snap.”

“But the weight!”

“We borrowed some equipment and a truck.”

Ian couldn’t stop smiling. “You stupid son of a bitch.”

  


_They’d stumbled upon the place by accident, but Ian had definitely heard of it before. It was an old-school gay hook-up spot, very divey and seedy, with more fucked up tales to tell than a banned Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit. They’d gotten drunk at some too trendy place in Midtown that Lip had invited them to, then wandered around afterward, cuz they didn’t feel like going home just yet._

_Mickey noticed the glowing blue and green neon sign first, guffawing in Ian’s ear and cutting off his story that wasn’t particularly funny._

_“What the shit?” said Mickey, pointing at a brick building across the street._

_Ian followed his finger and laid eyes on the circular sign for the first time. A cartoon, mustachioed dude who strongly resembled the classic Brawny Man, and every 70s and 80s porn actor ever, was winking and holding up his fingers up in the classic OK gesture, and underneath it was the name of the bar: MANHOLE!_

_Exclamation point and all._

_“Oh my god! I’ve heard of this place for years! It’s like a gay Chicago landmark. Been there for fucking ever.”_

_“Surprised none of your grandpa johns ever took your twink ass there, then.”_

_Ian swatted him. “Fuck off. We should go in!”_

_“Why? You feel like sucking some leathery, shriveled dick for cash again?”_

_“I swear to god, I’m gonna bring up every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done if you say another word about my past, asshole.”_

_“That sign is pretty outstanding, but everyone in there’s probly older than both of us combined.”_

_“So? We’re not goin’ in for other people, are we? Let’s have one more drink and do a looky-loo. Might be entertaining.”_

_“Whatever the fuck. You’re payin’,” said Mickey as they crossed the street._

_“Thought we shared everything now, Mr. Joint Bank Account.”_

_“In theory, but I’m talkin’ in principle.”_

_“That doesn’t make any sense.”_

_“It makes complete sense, asswipe.”_

_“I’ll remind you of that next time I take issue with your latest unnecessary purchase, dickbreath.”_

_“Do whatcha gotta do, lover.”_

_Ian grabbed his hand and pulled him inside the heavy, black wooden door._

_It was beyond dimly lit and definitely had a leather bar feel to it, with an off-putting chemical smell suffocating the air, like they regularly power-hosed the whole place down with bleach as if it were some cum-covered bathhouse. There was a lot of gray hair among the black leather and stainless steel, and more than a few people were puffing on cigarettes like the laws against indoor public smoking never reached this place that had been frozen in time decades ago. It was very ‘South Side goes wild and extra homo.’_

_He could practically feel all the eyes following them as they found a spot at the square ,wrap-around bar in the middle of the space. He knew they were all thinking, ‘Fresh meat.’ The guy behind the bar looked exactly like Mr. Manhole on the neon sign outside, and was probably the next youngest person in the room, aside from a possible assortment of young hustlers catching a quick buck in shadows somewhere. Ian would put him at around 45. He probably got hired to look like the stereotypical leather daddy mascot, and made great tips off these geezers, which likely made up for the general air of depression and desperation permeating his shifts._

_“What can I get you boys?” he asked._

_“Two whiskeys, neat,” said Mickey. “Pony up, hubby.”_

_“Please don’t say that in here, or I may never fuck you again,” Ian griped._

_Mickey tittered. “Aw, you don’t want Old Father Kinky Christmas Boots over there gettin’ the wrong idea in his head? Pretty sure you’re too late.”_

_Ian looked over to where Mickey nodded and accidentally locked eyes with Creepy Santa Man, who promptly licked his lips and rubbed his nipples through his leather vest._

_“Jesus, Mickey, why?”_

_Mickey just laughed harder and slung a possessive arm over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. Shouldn’t be too hard to shatter some hips in this joint.”_

_“Okay, you realize that everything that's coming out of your mouth right now just gets worse, right?”_

_“Did you just hear yourself though?”_

_“What, ‘coming out of your mouth?’” Ian cringed. “I hate you.”_

_“You're too easy. But that always was your problem, wasn’t it?”_

_“I’m filing for divorce tomorrow.”_

_Bartender Man set their drinks down in front of them, and Ian whipped out his wallet. “How much?”_

_“Don’t worry about it, it’s on Don over there,” the bartender gestured to a haggard, painfully thin guy who had to be at least 70._

_He raised his own glass at them, and Ian cursorily smiled and waved in thanks as Mickey grimaced and slapped Ian’s hand down to the table._

_“Don’t fuckin’ encourage him, what is wrong with you?”_

_“Free drinks, I’m just being polite.”_

_“If he tries to so much as talk to us, I will choke you, and not with my fat cock.”_

_“Please, your cock isn’t long enough to choke me, and I know how to get out of your weak-ass chokeholds anyway.”_

_“Wanna fuckin’ bet?”_

_Ian finally noticed that the bartender was still standing in front of them, a look of subtle amusement tinged with concern on his face._

_“Don’t worry, guys,” he interjected, “Don keeps to himself. He does like eye candy, though. Just enjoy the drinks and if you’re gonna choke each other out, fuck somewhere other than here, cuz I ain’t dealin’ with no fuckin’ cops tonight, capiche?”_

_Mickey saluted him and Ian nodded his agreement._

_“Soooo, this night took a weird turn,” Ian observed._

_“This was your dumb idea, man, we can leave anytime.”_

_Ian shrugged. “You think they have like backrooms and shit?”_

_“I don’t know. Maybe. Shit’s probly crusty as hell and you could catch Hep C just from leanin’ on the wall too hard.”_

_Ian smiled. “Might be kinda hot, though.”_

_“You on an exhibitionist kick right now? For these graveyard-dwelling motherfuckers?”_

_“Think about it this way, Mick… one day, we’re gonna be old and decrepit too. No one is gonna find us hot except each other, if your crazy ass is still alive…”_

_“Oh, I’m the crazy ass now? Who’s the one on lifetime medication again?”_

_“At least I have a medical excuse, douchebag. You’re just an unreformable danger-slut. It’s impossible to wring it all out of your stubborn, Milkovich ass.”_

_“I got somethin’ you can wring outta my ass, Gallagher.”_

_Ian scrunched his face up. “Divorce. Tomorrow. First thing.”_

_“You really wanna go exploring whatever’s hidden back there? You know old Don knows where all the glory holes are. Might catch some kinda cock you never wanted or intended. Could come outta nowhere and poke you in the naughty place.”_

_“Just thought it’d be a funny story.”_

_“For who? You wanna tell your family about our sexcapades?”_

_“Not like you’ve never shared way too much about them in the past.”_

_“Bitch, you were right there next to me, or on top of me, or whatever. That door never stays fuckin’ shut. It’s not even a real fuckin’ door!”_

_“So fucking in front of my family’s okay, but if a couple of old queens see us, that’s a dealbreaker?”_

_“When you put it like that, I guess you have a point. But still… this place is gross. It’s like when we used to fuck outside in the dirty alleyways and abandoned buildings, but worse somehow.”_

_“Come on, Mick,” Ian encouraged, throwing back his whiskey like liquid courage. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”_

_“Pfft.” Mickey threw back his drink as well. “Whatever, Alice, you wanna go down the rabbit hole, I ain’t gonna stop ya. But I don’t think we’re gonna find Wonderland.”_

_“It’s not a rabbit hole, Mick,” Ian said leaning in close. “It’s a man hole.” He emphasized it with a wink._

_“I humbly agree to your offer of divorce. Tomorrow. 9 AM sharp.”_

_Ian grinned and pushed him toward the unknown depths of the establishment._

_Sure enough, there was a space beyond the door to the bathrooms that twisted and turned down a hallway darker than the rest of the place. About halfway down, you started to hear the grunting, and groaning, and the smacking of skin on skin. They rounded the bend, and the dull lighting finally laid the scene bare._

_If Ian had had a boner already, he would’ve lost it, and he may have actually gone softer just gazing around. It was deeply unsexy, reminding him of some of the worst memories he had from his freewheelin’ go-go rentboy days. Saggy asses, weird gurgling noises, rough arrhythmic pumping. It wasn’t exactly… inspiring. Ian and Mickey may not be old, but they were a married couple now, and more than happy to keep it in the bedroom. There’d been too many years where they had to keep it outside the bedroom anyway. And it’s not like they didn’t bang in the back of their security rig at least once a week. He’d even stashed a little mattress pad back there for comfort._

_Sometimes Ian found himself trying to recapture something he didn’t even give a shit about, and this was probably one of those times._

_“Heyyyyy,” a raspy voice came out of the darkness, as some ancient, hairy dude slithered up to them, buck naked and sporting the biggest dick piercing on the smallest cock Ian had ever seen. “You lookin’ for a third tonight?”_

_Ian was at a loss for words and could only gape. But of course, Mickey was much faster on the uptake._

_“Fuck no, you wrinkly perv, and if we were, you’d be the last motherfucker on earth we’d take on that ride. Get the fuck away from us ‘fore I knock the rest of your nasty teeth out.”_

_And just like that, Prince Albert Babydick slinked back into the shadows from whence he came, and Ian grasped onto Mickey’s hand for dear life and steered them hastily out of the bar without looking back once._

_“One visit to the Manhole was quite enough for me,” he said once they were safely back across the street. He gazed up at the funny neon sign again and smiled. “That marquee is still amazing, though.”_

_Ian snapped a quick picture of it on his phone, adding, “Let’s get the fuck outta here. I’m gonna need several showers before I can even think about fucking you.”_

_“You think I should get a cock piercing? Kinda sexy…”_

_“Let’s make it 8 AM sharp, asshat.”_

  


It had been a stupid, wacky night, but very memorable, and despite the unsavoriness, it had been a fun little interlude that broke up the monotony. They joked about it fairly often, and the fact that it even occurred to Mickey to heist the big ass sign for Ian as a gesture of their first milestone together as married assholes was pretty thrilling.

“I really can’t believe you. This is amazing. I'm still mad at you for all the risk, but fuck… it’s such a _good_ bad idea.”

Mickey smiled smugly and ate up the praise, ignoring the weak chastisements. “Whatever the fuck your lame ass came up with, I win.”

Ian rolled his eyes and clasped his arms behind Mickey’s neck. “Leave you to turn every goddamn thing we do into a competition. Even anniversary presents.”

“Damn right. I’m the best. You sorta win too, cuz you _get_ the best.”

“So there’s nothing best about _me_ then?”

“Maybe one or two things.”

“Aside from my monster cock.”

“Maybe one thing.”

Ian smacked him on the cheek, then pulled him in for a long, soft kiss, tilting Mickey’s chin back with his thumb as he caressed his neck.

“I love it,” he murmured. “But did you really have to drag me outta bed to give it to me in the middle of the night, like the dramatic-ass bitch that you are?”

“I mean, tonight was the only time we could coordinate to pull the job, and I didn’t really have anywhere else to store it. Seemed dumb to give it to you during the day time.”

“We could’ve waited ’til tomorrow night, then. I don't even have your things here. I have to pick them up from Lip’s.”

“Why the fuck are they at Lip’s?”

“Cuz he was helpin’ me build ‘em.”

“He didn’t say shit to me about it.”

“He wasn’t supposed to.”

“What the hell did you build?”

“Nothin’ as fancy as this classy light show that is now the only decoration in our first house.”

“Tell me.”

Ian sighed deeply. “I'll bring ‘em over in the afternoon. Hold your damn horses.”

“Ain’t got no horses.”

“Will you shut up? I wanna go back to sleep.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep yet, I’m all keyed up.”

“Well, that’s your fucking fault, isn’t it, cat burglar?”

“That’s not the kinda ‘thank you’ I was expectin’.”

“We have all day to bang, Mickey. That’s what anniversaries are for.”

“I think you could bang me a little bit before you go back to sleep.”

“Ugh! Don’t you ever get tired of banging all the time?”

Mickey pulled a comical face. “No! And if _you_ do, we got a problem. Do you?”

“No, not really.”

“You’re the most insufferable son of a bitch I ever met, you know that?”

“No I’m not.”

“I can’t stand you.”

“Turn off that gigantic piece of homo memorabilia you got me before you come to bed. You realize that thing is gonna cost us an arm and a leg in electric bills, right?”

“Didn’t think about that part.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Insufferable.”

“Sleep now, sex later.”

“Mean as hell, and ungrateful to boot.”

“Cry me a river, Danny Ocean.”

“Ooh, that was a good one.”

Ian sauntered back to bed with a bounce in his step, smirking at the obscene muttering Mickey was doing to himself as he unplugged the bright lights and followed, and decided to give him the little bit of sex he desired after all.

  


  



End file.
